


The Pretense

by Colubrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Politics, let's take down fascism kids!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 105,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21310816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina
Summary: Voldemort died, but the Death Eaters live on. Hermione Granger traded herself to Draco Malfoy in exchange for safe passage for core Order members. Now he's pretending to love her, Narcissa is pretending to believe that, and Hermione is walking a tightrope behind enemy lines as she figures out what is going on. Unfortunately, people fall off tightropes.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 408
Kudos: 441





	1. The Bracelet

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FFN between July of 2107 and November of 2018. I have made no changes in moving it here and the typos live on in all their glory. Thank you to palisauraus for the prompt on tumblr that spawned this.

"This is our only option," Ron said. The words weren't even a question. He sounded furious and disgusted and, perhaps, even betrayed. They'd fought for so long, and lied to themselves about how well things were going. Things were not going well. You could only mop up blood and bind wounds and apparate away from groups of ever-more Death Eaters before you had to stop pretending you were winning. Voldemort had been a figure head. Yaxley, it turned out, was a much better strategical thinker. With Yaxley in charge, they were winning.

"Espionage has a long history of success," Moody said. His arms were crossed and his false eye was twirling and spinning as it examined the room. Hermione wondered, not for the first time, if it could see through clothing. Was life one big peep-show to Mad-Eye? Did his magical vision stop at her brassiere, her skin, or could he see the blood pounding in her veins? Could he see the way her own fear sped her heart. Could he see the way she swallowed her hate?

"You mean whoring," Ron said. "Let's not dress this up with pretty words. What you're asking her to do is fuck a monster for us."

"He has an obsession, it would seem," Moody said. "His mother calls it love."

"Narcissa Malfoy could lie to the devil himself," Ron said. He was just getting more heated. "Do you know how you can tell if a Malfoy is lying? Their lips are moving."

"That's old," Harry said. He hadn't moved from his chair since they'd passed Draco Malfoy's proposal around the table. Safe passage for all of them to the continent in exchange for Hermione Granger. He promised she'd be treated well. He loved her.

Tell him no, and he'd relay their position to the power that be that night.

"Can you do it?" Harry asked her. Ongoing war had hardened him. He'd died twice already and didn't have time for people who weren't just as willing to sacrifice as he was.

"Pretend I love Malfoy?" Hermione asked. She shook her head. "Get intelligence out to you? Sure. No problem. But convince that tosser I don't think he's a filthy bottom-feeder?"

She didn't bother to answer her own rhetorical question. They all knew she couldn't manage it. She thought that would be the end of it, that they'd just fight their way out to another safe house, until Molly coughed. Everyone looked at her.

"I doubt he expects you to fall into his arms," Molly said. Her hands were curled along the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles were white but she kept her voice calm. Her eyes betrayed her, though. She flicked her gaze from Ron to Ginny to George. Three of her surviving children, all in one room, all at risk. "He'll expect to have to woo you."

Hermione closed her eyes. She pictured Draco Malfoy, pointed, prejudiced, posh, and tried to imagine why he wanted her. She knew Molly was right. He was smart enough to know if she arrived claiming to have always loved him she'd be lying. He'd be planning on her hate. She could her Ginny shift uncomfortably in one of the chairs. She'd been hit with a curse the week before, one that had left her paralyzed for four days. George still broke every mirror he found in fits of rage.

"I'm not very wooable," Hermione said.

She opened her eyes and looked at Harry. How long would she last, she wondered, before he'd ruin her? How long until Stockholm Syndrome kicked in and she did something that looked like love him back?

"Be careful," Harry said. He knew she'd agreed.

"No," Ron said, all rage. She reached a hand out to cup his cheek, ran her thumb along the jaw she'd slept next to for years. He swallowed and she brushed away the one tear he let escape. "Hermione, I'll - "

"Sooner or later I'll be unreliable," she said. She couldn't let him make promises. Promises were things you broke. Promises were things that broke you. There'd been a lot of promises in this war. "Be careful with what I send you."

Moody nodded brusquely. "He sent portkeys," he said. "You use the main one, it turns on the rest so we can go to the continent." Before anyone could ask he added, "It's keyed to you, Granger. Won't work for a substitute. Already looked at it."

"Smug bastard," Ron said.

Hermione let him go, and picked up the box Moody slid across the table to her. Portkeys were usually junk. They were meant to be unremarkable. Not this one. When she opened the box a diamond tennis bracelet winked up at her.

"I hate him," Ron said.

Hermione reached out and picked up Draco Malfoy's bracelet.


	2. The Arrival

Malfoy was waiting for her. He was dressed in all black, and quirked an eyebrow up at her arrival. She’d stumbled a bit when the portkey dropped her into what appeared to be a pointless, empty room with pointless, delicate furniture. When she found her footing she crossed her arms and glared at him. His immaculate perfection made her feel grubby. The losing side of a war didn’t offer the hot water amenities Malfoy Manor clearly did. They got moral righteousness and cold water baths taken on the run that left her feeling always a bit less than clean. She resented the feeling, and that made her even less happy to see him.

“Malfoy,” she said, not bothering to hide the venom in her tone. “You’re madly in love, I understand.”

“The heart is a mysterious thing,” he said. “Who can fathom its endless mysteries?”

That left her speechless. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected to see when she arrived here. Death Eaters ready to pounce, perhaps, or groping hands. Maybe sneering declarations of love. She certainly hadn’t expected an opaque man who seemed almost as unhappy to see her as she was to be here.

“You might want a shower,” he said. “Being a rebel appears to involve more dirt than my mother generally likes people tracking in.”

“Filth, you mean?” She couldn’t keep herself from talking. “Muggle-born filth?”

He just shrugged. “Would you like to see your suite?”

“I want to know the others got away,” she said. That was what this was about, after all. She wasn’t here for the amenities or the company. She was here to save them and to spy. She’d have to start making up to him in a bit but right now she could indulge in letting him see how she really felt. “Can you do that?”

“Of course.” He had the gall to sound gracious and accommodating and pointed her at the fireplace. “You may floo-call your hidey-hole, though I assume no one will answer, or you could try the Malfoy chateau in Switzerland. They should be there if they had the wit to follow instructions with reasonable speed.” The last was muttered and she could tell he half suspected they’d stay to fight.

She tossed in the powder, called out for the chateau, and waited. After a moment, Ron’s head appeared. She held back tears at the sight of him. Even outlined in flame he was everything she’d never have again. “You safe?” she asked. “Everything work the way he said it would?”

He nodded. “Moody has us clearing out of here tonight, but I said we needed to stay until you made contact.” She reached toward the fire, wishing she could touch him one last time, and then turned, furious, when Malfoy broke the connection and her last hope of Ron disappeared. 

“Long connections can be traced,” he said. “If you want them alive, you’ll ensure that doesn’t happen.”

He stepped closer as he spoke and she could smell the aftershave he used. Something sharp and bitter. She didn’t like it. She began to step away but his hand moved quickly to slide along her lower back and hold her in place and she shuddered. So now it began, the cost of it all. He set his mouth at her ear and murmured, “Trust no one, Granger.”

She almost choked at that unexpected, unromantic warning. “Not even you?” she asked. 

He released her and stepped away. “Would you care to see your suite now?”

“Does it have a lock?” she asked sourly.

The answer surprised her. 

“Yes,” he said, then opened the door and waved her so she could precede him. She’d never seen these manners at Hogwarts. She’d never seen them in the rebellion either. She bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed and focused on the bitter truth that monsters could be gracious as she let him lead her through the lavishly appointed corridor, up a set of wide, carpeted stairs, down a narrowed but still impressive hallway until he set his hand on an ornate, brass doorknob. “Your new home,” he said, and opened the door.

The room had several chairs, a small desk, a table and copious bookshelves. What it didn’t have was a bed. She turned to look at Malfoy.

“I did say it was a suite,” he said. The condescension grated, as did his obvious enjoyment at getting to be quite so smug. He pointed over to a door set into one wall. “The bedroom and an en-suite are through there.”

“I won’t be sharing a room with you?” she asked. She meant the words to be sarcastic and biting and hated the way they came out with a bit of a quiver. She waited for him to pounce on that sign of fear and almost hated him more when he didn’t. 

Worse, he looked, albeit only briefly, utterly disgusted.

“No,” he said. “I thought perhaps we should get to know one another. My deep and abiding love for you is such I can wait.”

She pulled her wand out and waved the door closed behind him. “But Malfoy,” she said, moving as close to him as she could stand just to see what he would do. “Love?”

“Are you really this dense?” 

The words were murmured like a lover’s caress. His breath was hot on her neck and she could smell that he had brushed his teeth lately. To anyone watching the hand that slid up her back probably looked romantic. Now that she was paying attention, she could tell he wasn’t eager to feel her skin, or reach that hand around to feel curves he should, in theory, be lusting after. He could barely bring himself to touch her.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Your hidey-hole was discovered,” he said so softly she had to strain to hear him. “If the lot of you hadn’t left, you’d all be dead by morning.”

She could feel herself stiffen. “And this… charade?”

“I figured no one would believe I slipped you information out of the goodness of my heart.” She was pressed so closely to him now she could feel that heart pounding. “But a trade for a girl? Lust? You’d fall for that. Everyone would.”

“Why me?”

“I would have preferred the Weasley,” he said somewhat dryly. 

Hermione would never have expected that confession to rankle. It did, though. 

“I didn’t think they’d give her up,” he was going on. “So the pureblood was out, and that left you.”

“You thought none of them would care about me?” she asked.

“Obviously they didn’t.” Malfoy brushed his lips against her neck and added with so much cruelty she believed for the first time he was a Death Eater and not just a spoiled boy. “No one really cared enough about keeping you to argue that strongly against it. Not like they would have for their little Ginevra or even that Luna. You, Granger, were disposable to them.”

She shoved him away and kept herself from hunching over with the same force of will that had kept her fighting. “You’re a monster,” she said.

Something flickered in his eyes before he hid it. “Indeed. Do clean yourself up. I assume you’ll want the night to settle in. I’ll be up to join you for breakfast in my role of the loving and patient suitor. Perhaps we can take a walk in the gardens after. They’re very nice.”

“I hate you,” she said. She planned to sit on the floor of that shower and cry until she ran out of tears. Maybe she’d still be there when he arrived with toast, tea, and marmalade. 

He leaned in for one more faux-kiss. “I’m not that fond of you, either,” he said. “I hope your side manages to win quickly with the information I’m sure you’ll find a way to send them so I can stop pretending.” 

When he left she turned the lock and then huddled against the door, taking less comfort in the solid click of the latch than she would have expected. Maybe she’d just crumple to the floor and start crying right here.


	3. Breakfast

By morning Hermione had gotten herself under control. The shower was indeed hot, the towels thick, and the bed unashamedly luxurious. The door to the bedroom had a lock of its own, and she turned that and sheltered behind two layers of latches and keys and wondered what it was that Malfoy was playing at as she fell asleep.

She hadn’t come to any conclusions by the time she rose and took another shower. Maybe with enough water she could wash the stench of Malfoy’s brutal truth out of her ears: the Order had been happy to use her as a pawn. She could have said no, but no one other than Ron had argued against it. Molly had thrown her to this wolf to save her own children.

That stung.

The clothes in the wardrobe were near enough to her size to be comfortable but not so perfectly to her taste as to suggest a creepy level of observation on Malfoy’s part. They were just reasonably stylish robes and she gave a little spin in front of a full mirror and admired the way the yellow skirt billowed out in a circle. More people, she thought, should wear full skirts. They flattered. 

Her hair up in a twist, neatly dressed, and clean, she decided to laugh at herself for her hysterics of the night before. If the skirt flattered what feminine vanity she had, Malfoy’s open admission he wasn’t really in love with her had managed to offend it. By the light of day that was a bit funny. She certainly wasn’t in love with _him_ – quite the opposite, really – and it was a bit comforting to know he wasn’t planning to run his narrow hands all over her or coerce her into any intimacy. She would blame her breakdown on what had, after all, been a very trying few hours and nothing else. From the arrival of Malfoy’s proposed trade to landing - metaphorically, thank Merlin – in his lap, she’d been running in alt. A crash had been inevitable.

She was a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.

The knock at her out door came with nearly perfect timing. She’d just slipped her feet into shoes charmed to fit whoever wore them and wiggled her toes in delight at the ways magic could work. She heard the rap tapping, nodded to herself, and briskly shut up her bedroom and opened the door to face her first full day as Draco Malfoy’s pretend love interest.

“May I come in?” he asked with absolute decorum.

He was dressed in black again and she spared a moment to wonder if the color palette was a personal preference or whether dark wizards were issued a dress code when they signed up. That seemed too ridiculous to believe, but Voldemort had also designed a snake and skull Mark so maybe the affectation went even further.

She stepped aside to let him pass and he nodded courteously as he came in, a silver tray balanced on his hands. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said as he set it down and began to pour tea into two porcelain cups that looked like the sort of thing you’d see in a museum. “I hope I haven’t erred too badly.”

Hermione looked over the offerings. Tea. Toast. A pot of what was probably jam. Were there people who didn’t like toast? Did he think she’d turn her nose up at plain bread, or throw the whole tray in his face?

Well, after last night perhaps he did think the latter.

“This is fine,” she said as she sat down. She hesitated, then added, “I would like to apologize for any histrionics I might have displayed last night.” She sounded stiff and formal and awkward but that was better than the spiteful cat she’d been when she’d arrived.

“Quite understandable.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he sat down and helped himself to a piece of toast from the stack. He used far too much jam, she thought. “I’m sure it was a difficult day.”

That was certainly true. They sat without speaking, the sound of chewing unpleasantly loud as she tried to think of something to say. After he finished his slice, Malfoy said, “You aren’t wearing your bracelet.”

“What?”

“The portkey,” he said as if she hadn’t known what bracelet he meant. “It isn’t every day I pass out diamonds. I thought you’d wear it.”

She thought about the look on Ron’s face when they’d looked down at the box filled with Draco Malfoy’s trap and gift and bile filled her mouth. “The last time you gave a woman jewellery she almost died,” she said. “I think I’ll pass.”

He knew at once who she meant and a dull shade of red tried to creep up out of his collar and onto his face. He could flush with shame for the things he’d done. Good to know. “I wasn’t trying to hurt Katie,” he said. 

“Only Dumbledore,” Hermione said. She kept the words as level as she could but she could still see the battle when he finally had, or hadn’t. She could still see all of them when she closed her eyes. That one had been the first time Hogwarts had been breached. It had destroyed their safe haven, killed the headmaster, started the war. And it had been Draco Malfoy’s fault. He’d let the Death Eaters in. 

“Well, I was a failure at that,” Malfoy said. He had his hands folded in his lap and his spine was so straight she thought you could use it to plumb bricks if you wanted to build a wall. “Dumbledore commented how inept I had been before he died.”

She didn’t know quite what to say to that.

“The Dark Lord also had things to say,” Malfoy said. He reached a hand out to pour himself more tea and she watched his hand shook. He grimaced and set the pot back down then set his hand on the table and forced the tremors to still. He saw her stare and managed a tight smile. “I have been assured by Healers that the spasms will eventually cease. Probably.”

“You -.”

“It is a common side effect of repeated exposure to Cruciatus,” he said. “You can feel confident that my uselessness in the Dumbledore matter has been quite thoroughly reprimanded.”

“I’m - .” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. That she was sorry, perhaps, or that if you joined up with a Dark Lord what did you expect? Sunshine and roses? She didn’t get a chance to finish her thought because he interrupted her.

“I would like you to wear the bracelet, if you wouldn’t mind. It hasn’t been cursed.”

She _accioed_ the bracelet from where she’d left it and weighed it in her hand. It was pretty enough, if you liked that sort of thing. A glittering shackle, however, was still a shackle. “Why?” she asked.

He still had one hand pressed against the table and he kept his eyes on the tea he was spooning sugar into with the other. “It will monitor your heart rate,” he said. “If it spikes, I will know and I can – “

“Defend me?”

“Don’t be fooled by the pretty furniture,” he said. He looked up at last and she was struck by how haunted he looked. Bags sat under his eyes and his fair skin looked fragile. He looked ill. “This is an armed camp, and to most you’re the camp follower. Some people might assume I wouldn’t mind if they roughed you up.”

She heard the warning and wasn’t a fool enough to throw away an ally in this place, even him, so she tossed the bracelet at him. He caught it and for a tiny moment his eyes sparkled with pleasure.

“Still a Seeker,” she said.

The sparkle disappeared and he smiled wanly. “You never liked Quidditch,” he said. “Not like I did.” She held her wrist out across the table and he fussed with the catch until it clicked into place and the weight of the metal sat cool against her skin. 

“When you’re done,” he said, “perhaps we can take that walk. My mother would like to greet you, welcome you to her home.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Hermione was sure Narcissa Malfoy was just thrilled to have her here, cluttering the place up. A Muggle-born with – a _mudblood_ – was just what every elitist pureblood matriarch hoped for, especially the sort married to a Death Eater. Did she know Draco didn’t really love her? Would she let on if she did? “Hail Narcissa,” she muttered. “We who are about to die salute you.”

She thought she’d kept the words sufficiently under her breath to avoid him hearing but she hadn’t because he asked, “What?” with obvious confusion.

“It’s not important,” she said. She pushed the chair back from the table and stood up. “Shall we go say hello to your mother?”


	4. Those are Pears

Narcissa Malfoy, predictably, wore black robes. She sat on a little bit of spindly furniture, ankles crossed and nose wrinkled, fully confident no couch would dare break under her. Hermione stood in the doorway of the sort of pointless room only the very rich had and wondered if Malfoy’s crazed aunt had tortured anyone on _these _rugs, or did they try to keep that sort of thing contained to only a few rooms. She didn’t move until Narcissa waved Hermione over with a gesture so imperious it wouldn’t have bene out of place on a queen, though probably no queen would have needed to make it. Narcissa patted the cushion next to her in an unspoken command and Hermione obediently perched on the edge of the silk cushion. She folded her hands in her lap and eyed Malfoy’s mother.

It was hard to imagine a less comfortable social encounter.

Draco Malfoy – she couldn’t think of him as just _Malfoy_ when there were two of the clan in the same room – sat down across from them in a rather more solid bit of carved wooden ugliness. Hermione forced a strained smile to her face as Narcissa Malfoy looked her over with a decidedly critical eye. At last Narcissa frowned, tucked an errant blonde lock behind one ear, and said, with what might have passed for graciousness if you were a bit hard of hearing, “Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”

“You have a lovely home,” Hermione said. It was the appropriate thing to say and, since nothing else came to mind, she fell back on safe banalities. 

“War is such an odd thing,” Narcissa said, continuing to study her. “The violence is like a storm at sea, dredging things up from the muck and tossing them to the surface. Rot, most of it. Long sunk rubbish. But now and then a pearl rises up.”

Hermione had a terrible feeling this was supposed to be a compliment or an excuse for her background. She choked back the urge to reply. Nothing good would come of telling this woman where she could shove her judgement.

“Draco talked about you for years, of course. On and on about the Muggle who had better marks.” Narcissa glanced over at Draco and Hermione looked too. Draco was frowning. “I always assumed he was just put out one of the little nobodies Dumbledore was always on about could match him.”

“They do say little boys yank on the pigtails of girls they like,” Draco said. He sounded bored and aristocratic but, under that, perhaps, sat a warning to them all.

“Yes,” Narcissa said. “And so here you are, the girl he fell wildly, passionately in love with. Quite a coup.”

Hermione wished there were an answer as proper as ‘you have a lovely home’ for that statement. 

“And,” Narcissa went on, “Because I will do anything for Draco, I procured him the portkey he needed to get you. Making a portkey is a trivial enough task if one knows how.”

“Portkeys,” Hermione said. Draco had had _portkeys_. Plural. And she was quite sure making one wasn’t the trivial thing Narcissa claimed. 

Narcissa frowned at her. “I thought you were clever, Miss Granger, and I did so hope your grammar, at least, would be acceptable. Portkey. Singular.”

Hermione glanced down at her hands and at the bracelet locked around her wrist. How did Malfoy’s little monitoring spell work? Could he feel the way her blood pressure was rising as her temper caught? 

“You’ll do, I suppose,” Narcissa said when she didn’t respond. She rose to her feet and looked down her narrow nose at Hermione. “I need to go look in on my husband. He’s been unwell for some time and the coming and going of visitors in the Manor upsets him.”

“My father was weakened in Azkaban,” Draco said. “Where, as you may recall, your friend Potter sent him.”

Was she supposed to apologize for that?

“Go for a walk,” Narcissa said. “The rose garden is especially lovely right now, though it’s a bit of a ways from the house. It’s where Lucius courted me and the joie de vivre are in full bloom right now. You might enjoy it.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” Hermione said. Narcissa was all the way at the door before she managed to get out one last thought. “Madam Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“War raises people from the depths but it casts them down too.” She kept her gaze fixed on Narcissa Malfoy as she added, as sweetly as she could manage,” ‘Those are pearls that were his eyes’ after all.”

Narcissa sniffed and then she was gone, sweeping from the room with furious, controlled dignity.

“Well, that was opaque," Hermione mattered as she let Draco lead her out of the house through a set of wide French doors, down a stone path that reminded her of parks she had visited as a small child and passed a tall hedge. 

She assumed he was taking her to this rose garden that his mother had recommended and when he asked, "Do you know roses?" Her suspicion was confirmed. Suspicions. They were going to the rose garden and he had no intention of enlightening her as to whether or not his mother was in the know about his real feelings.

"Everyone likes roses," Hermione said. "They’re beautiful flowers."

"Symbols of love," Draco said.

"Then I assume these will all be made out of plastic," Hermione said under her breath. To her surprise, instead of being offended by that, Draco Malfoy laughed.

"The flower gardens, at least, are completely authentic," he said. The real amusement turned his posh accent from condescending to conspiratorial and she felt she had been let in on a private joke. Even knowing he didn’t like her she felt warmed and included. Even knowing what a sneering bully he had been – what a coward he still was – she smiled back in return. No wonder the Malfoys had been able to accumulate power over so many generations. No wonder people had been willing to overlook Lucius’ abuses during the first war. The bastards could be charming when they wanted to.

The sound of someone else walking warned her they weren’t alone, and the sound resolved into the thick-faced and thick-footed Alecto Carrow. She’d never been introduced to the woman, but she’d met her in battle more than once and Ginny had shared unpleasant stories. Her smile disappeared. "Nice company you all keep," she said. “Another gem thrown up from the muck?”

“The Carrows come and go as they please,” Draco said. He was back to bland, polite, and noncommittal. 

"How often are the -?” Hermione cast around trying to think about how she should describe the Death Eaters. They had some choice phrases they used in the Order but facing a boy who wore their Mark she couldn’t bring herself to say _fucking tossers_ or _wanking twatdicks_.

Draco answered her question and more. "They are here quite a bit, though we aren’t graced with Yaxley’s presence on a regular basis.

"You needn’t hesitate about calling them Death Eaters," Draco went on. "Not even to their faces. Having been admitted to the highest levels of the Dark Lord’s service while he lived and thus being permitted to call yourself such is considered quite an honor. They all bear it with pride." He paused for a moment and then corrected himself, "We all do."

"I'm sure," Hermione said. 

They were almost at the rose garden. Bright shocks of pink and yellow sat among thorns, all behind an intricately constructed stone wall. The wall was slightly above waist height, more of a visual demarcation than any real barrier, and when they reached it Hermione put her palms flat on the wall, pulled herself up, and sat. From there she could look out at the estate. Rolling lawns stretched out dotted with other flower gardens, a duck pond and a hedge maze. She saw what at one point had probably been stables and a dark strand of trees that looked to be the edge of a substantial forest. Her new home. 

"Pretty property," she said. Draco just shrugged and joined her on the wall. She supposed it was hard to be impressed with a vast estate what it was what you knew. She was probably equally blind to the comforts of her ballet-classes-and-trips-to-France childhood. Everyone assumed what they had was ordinary.

She could still see Alecto Carrow. Draco followed her gaze and his mouth tightened. “She's too lazy to walk this far out very often," he said. “No one comes here except for me, my mother, and, occasionally, the gardening staff.” He glanced down behind the wall at the neatly mulched bed. Several weeds had poked their way up. “Too occasionally.”

Hermione had no opinions on that, and swung her feet as they sat in silence for a while. A bee buzzed near her, then took off in search of sweeter nectar. "Sorry I'm not Ginny,” she said at last. It galled her that his comment had bothered her at all, but Narcissa’s description of her as a pearl dredged out of the muck made his idle preference seem even more grating. She hated these people with their thoughtless prejudice. "I didn't realize you two were so close," she added.

Draco snorted. "I don't think I've spoken more than three sentences to her in my life," he said. "She's just a pureblood."

"And that makes her better," Hermione said.

Draco had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. "It means it would have been easier for her here, that’s all," he said. He hunched his shoulders forward a little and added, "I didn't mean to imply I had any sort of tendre for her, if that's what you were thinking."

Hermione didn't know quite what she had been thinking. She had been irrationally insulted and irritated but thought hadn’t really played much of a role in her response. "Well," she said, trying to make a joke out of it, "Harry will be relieved to hear that. He dislikes you enough as it is. I doubt he’d like hearing you had some sort of a thing for his fiancé."

"Your Harry can feel confident that I have no interest in his girlfriend," Draco said. "Dating has not exactly been one of my priorities in the last few years."

"What has?" Hermione asked.

"Survival," he said baldly and she looked back down to her feet. She was all too familiar with the way survival could come to dominate every thought of every day. It seemed sad to her, though, to not even have the solace of romance to sweeten the darkness. She closed her eyes to squeeze away any memories that threatened to leak out. She was fine. She could handle herself without needing to lie in some man’s arms at night. She was fine. Ron was fine. She was here to keep him – all of them – safe, and tonight she’d get a charm set up to send messages back and forth and make this even more worthwhile. 

When Yaxley it is here," Draco said, "you'll probably want to stay out of sight as much as possible. If he really takes interest it's not like you can avoid him, but up until now he shown very little interest in the sex lives of the Death Eaters and I doubt you and I will be any different."

“Despite the mudblood thing," Hermione said. It was half a question, half a bitter statement.

"Muggle girls are actually very popular," Draco said. He kept his voice the kind of careful neutrality she had already come to realize meant he was saying something horrible. “Less likely to come with wizarding relatives who object, you see.”

Oh, she saw. How she saw. She wanted to be ill she saw so clearly.

"What does he want?" she asked. She'd known what Voldemort wanted. He'd wanted eternal life. He'd wanted power. He'd wanted glory. He'd wanted people to kowtow to him. Yaxley was more of a mystery. Was he an ideologue? Power hungry? He'd managed to turn a group of sadistic fools into an army so one thing he was was competent.

"Well," Draco said, "he still has a bee in his bonnet about that prophecy."

"The prophecy?" Hermione asked in disbelief. "The one about Harry?" That was hardly secret. Every single person in the Order knew what the prophecy said. Parents defied Voldemort three times, marked as an equal, neither could live while the other survived. It was considered absurd, not classified information. And, besides, Voldemort was gone. Who cared about that now?

"The prophecy," Draco confirmed. He touched her with his elbow and said what he clearly thought was a joke, “I don't suppose you know it and can tell it to me?"

"I can write it down for you if you want,” Hermione said. ”It's nonsense of course, like all divination, but if you want it I'll be happy to give it to you."

She’d managed to stun Draco into complete and absolute silence. He stared at her, his mouth agape, and, ever the daughter of dentists, she noted that he had perfect teeth. At last he said, "I don't want you to betray your side."

"I won't," Hermione said. "Trust me, this is trivial."

Draco looked out across the lawn. They could both still see Alecto, who’d been joined by her twin brother. The two dark-robed figures had their heads together in a tête-à-tête. One of them pointed toward Draco and Hermione and any question as to what they were talking about disappeared.

Hermione felt grim worry at being object of their curiosity and speculation and, as the twins started to walk toward them Draco said, his voice choked with something she didn't want to understand, "I can't tell you what that will mean for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to UnknownAuthoress for the British insults. Thank you to lilikaco for catching a major continuity error which has been fixed.
> 
> Hermione quotes either Shakespeare or T.S. Eliot, depending on your preference. 
> 
> Full fathom five thy father lies;  
Of his bones are coral made;  
Those are pearls that were his eyes;  
Nothing of him that doth fade,  
But doth suffer a sea-change  
Into something rich and strange. – Act I, scene ii, The Tempest
> 
> Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,  
Had a bad cold, nevertheless  
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,  
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,  
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,  
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)  
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,  
The lady of situations. – The Waste Land


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione watched the Carrows get closer and closer and tried to think of what to do. She didn’t know how bad it would be if Malfoy’s ruse were discovered, but her hunch was that it would result in nothing good. She didn’t know enough about all the undercurrents to figure anything out and Narcissa Malfoy certainly hadn’t helped. The only option, at least for now, seemed to be to play along. "Kiss me," she said.

It seemed like such a logical move, such a perfect way to convince the approaching pair that Malfoy’s sentiment was sincere, that Hermione felt impatience make her jaw tighten when he looked first confused then offended. He opened his mouth and she just knew he was going to tell her again that he wasn't really mad for her. Before he could get a word out she hissed, "It's a show, you idiot, for those two buffoons."

Comprehension flickered in his eyes, along with distaste and she used her anger at that to fuel her own performance. She pushed her hand against his chest as if she were trying to shove him away but instead hooked her fingers around the fabric and toppled backward, pulling him on top of her. She hoped from a distance it looked like he had shoved her over. Quick on the uptake with this he wasn't. "I apologize," she said, not really all that sorry, "if I accidentally hurt you." Then she rammed her knee upward as if she were going for his stones.

The angle was off, and he was never in any real danger, but that finally galvanized him into action and he slammed his hands into her upper arms and held her down against the stone wall. "Bitch," he said. He pitched his voice to carry. He'd finally figured out his role. It was about time. "I don't have to be nice."

She began to struggle in earnest now that he was holding her down, and one shoe flew off as he pushed his mouth up against hers and shoved his tongue between her lips. One knee pushed her legs apart and real fear flooded through her just as a coarse laugh grated against her ears.

Malfoy had had mint tea for breakfast. She could taste it. She wanted to gag.

"I was just going to offer to give you lessons," Amycus Carrow said. "But maybe you don't need any help after all."

Malfoy straightened up, giving her one last hard push into the stone wall. "This isn't a peepshow," he said coldly. "What do you want, Carrow?"

"Just curious about your little bird, is all," he said. His eyes roamed over her with insulting familiarity and Hermione glowered at him as she straightened her top. Alecto bent down and picked up the slipper she'd kicked off and weighed it in her squat hand. 

"Give it," Hermione said. She put her palm out for the shoe and Alecto grinned with brown teeth. 

"Make me," she said.

Hermione held very still long enough for Alecto to begin laughing, then, in the sort of single, smooth motion she'd learned on the battlefield, she pulled her wand out and slashed it through the air as she whispered the curse too quietly to be heard. A bloody gash opened up on Alecto's hand and she yelped and dropped the shoe. One quick _accio_ and Hermione had it back in her grasp. It resized itself around her foot again as she put it on.

"If you insist," she said as she wiggled her toes.

Malfoy laughed. 

"I'll - " Amycus began.

"Do what?" Hermione asked. "Tell Yaxley that Draco Malfoy's mudblood is still quicker on the draw? Tell him you can't even defend yourself against one of the lesser orders? You go right ahead and do that. I’d love to see his response."

Draco Malfoy's laugh at that was harder and crueler. She could still hear the echo of the boy who'd dressed up as a Dementor to torment Harry in the sound. It wasn't endearing and it made it easy for her to throw a look of utter loathing in his direction. He ignored it.

"You give her a long leash," Alecto said. He didn't offer his sister any help.

Malfoy busied himself with brushing at her arms then tucking a curl that had escaped its twist back behind her ear. "You need to not make me angry," he said to her. "I don't want to hurt you, Hermione."

She let her breath hitch in a suppressed sob and he cupped the side of her face in one palm at that, a horrible mockery of concern, then looked at the hovering Carrows. "Why are you still here?" he asked.

"Young love is so beautiful," Alecto said with a sneer but she was backing away, her brother with her. Whatever they'd come to find out, they were satisfied. Draco pulled her to him, this time gently, and she kept herself stiff within that embrace but, she hoped, broken looking enough that the Carrows would keep leaving.

Malfoy still tasted like mint but this time she wanted to cry. The kiss was clumsy and tentative and so little like kissing Ron it might have been a whole different activity. There should be, she thought, different words for kissing a man you loved and kissing a man you didn't even like. It felt obscene to call them the same thing. 

She closed her eyes and began to count to ten. She'd reached seven when he stopped, pulled away, and said, his voice more normal, "They're gone."

She resisted the urge to wipe at her mouth.

"More sincerely," he said, "are you okay?"

"A little shaky," she admitted. That hadn’t been fun.

"Nothing a good cup of tea won't settle?" he asked. Tea, the universal British remedy. Have a bad afternoon at work? Tea. Difficult encounter with your mother-in-law? Tea. Playact a little sexual assault for sadists? Have some tea, that will surely fix everything.

Hysteria, however, would fix nothing, so she said, "Tea would be lovely, thank you."

He hopped down from the wall and held a hand out to help her get down as well. Somehow the chivalrous gesture, so at odds with the last few minutes, was what did her in and she began to shake, gulping sobs coming out between shudders. It had been a play, and one she had started, but it had been enough like the real thing to be horrible. Malfoy went to set a hand on her shoulder but she shook him off. "Just give me a minute," she said and he nodded. He busied himself by going around the wall and pulling out the errant weeds while she collected herself then brushed the dirt off his hands with a few brisk slaps. 

"You are very brave," he said as they began to walk back. 

"Gryffindor," she said with the ghost of a smile. "That hat knew what it was doing."

“Slytherin,” he said. “Self-serving to the end. It did with me, too.”

Was that another warning?

“Magic is like that,” she said, keeping herself from asking what the hell that meant.

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

She did stop and look at him at that. “Sorry for what?” she asked. There were so many possibilities. She could make a list that would go on for days.

“I’m probably not a very good kisser,” he said. The words were wry, and so distant she had no idea whether that was what the apology had really been for.

“Well, no one’s at their best during assault,” she said, trying for levity. “It doesn’t call for skill so much as force.”

He laughed again and, again, she was struck by how that transformed him from adversary into co-conspirator. It wasn’t a sound she’d heard from him at school and it made her smile. “I have to admit I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Not one of my hobbies.”

“Kissing?”

He gave her a long, steady look and she swallowed hard and turned away. “I guess that’s good to know,” she said. She cast around for something else to say, something that would brush away the nightmare of what he wasn’t. The relief that he wasn’t that. “And you weren’t that bad.”

He took her hand and looked down at the diamonds glittering in the sun. “Maybe we could agree not to lie to one another,” he said. 

“As we lie to the rest of them,” Hermione said. She was already thinking of the ways she could subtly alter the prophecy to bother Yaxley.

“Pretty much,” Malfoy agreed. He kissed the back of her hand then let it drop. “About that tea?”

“Please,” she said. The house loomed up before them as they walked, and then they were back within its grasp.


	6. Several Truths and One Lie

Hermione picked up the piece of parchment and blew on the ink with more satisfaction than she’d felt since arriving at Malfoy Manor. 

"You could use a drying charm," Malfoy said. 

She looked over where he sat. The empty tray with the tea that had indeed proved to be calming still sat on the table next to him. They had stacked the sandwich plates in a neat pile and the peels from their oranges peeked out from under the cloth napkins. He met her gaze far too smugly for her liking and she made a point of blowing on the ink again. She’d dry it however she liked.

Tea had been calming, lunch had been early but good, and, with that done, she’d sat down to write out the prophecy. Well, almost the prophecy. She’d added one extra line. It barely seemed like artistic license. It was a grace note. A flourish. She hoped it would get under Yaxley’s skin and keep the bastard up at night.

“You know all divination is absurd,” she said. "I can't give this to you without making it clear that you shouldn't trust it. Everyone in the Order thinks the prophecy is ridiculous."

It also seemed wholly irrelevant by now.

Malfoy’s look was measuring enough that she thought he might have heard what she didn't say. "I wouldn't expect you to be able to get it word for word perfect," he said, and with that she was sure. That made her feel a little better. Their not-quite-agreement to be honest with one another despite the situation was a fragile and delicate thing. She didn't want to violate it so soon.

"Why does Yaxley care anyway?" she asked. "It's not like it's about him."

Malfoy _accioed_ the parchment from her fingers and read over the words with greedy desperation on his face.

"Harry Potter just won't go away," Draco said. "None of you will. Yaxley has the _Prophet_, he has the ministry, he's getting awfully close to having Hogwarts, and yet there you all are. Radio broadcasts. Little hit-and-run attacks that always seem to manage to find his most vulnerable points." He looked up at her. "Potter is good at this."

"Molly is," Hermione said. Molly and Ron and Moody. Moody was a paranoid freak, and Ron had a quick temper and acted before he thought, but people who underestimated any of them were fools. People saw the poor housewife with her dumpy clothes and people saw the cripple. People saw Ron’s broad, simple face with that shock of ginger hair. They forgot Molly had fought in two wars. They forgot that she had seen brothers die, seen children die, that she had turned her own wand on Voldemort’s most trusted, most dangerous ally and taken the woman down. More, people never stopped to ask where Ron had gotten a mind that saw so many moves ahead on a chessboard or, now, in war. He certainly hadn't gotten it from Arthur.

She looked at her hands. There was a tiny spot of ink on one thumb and she charmed it away. She missed them all so much already. "He has good help," she said. "Loyal people."

"Loyalty is the most important thing," Malfoy said.

"Not a quality I would have associated with the Death Eaters," Hermione said.

"Not one a lot of them have," Draco said.

There wasn't much to say to that. She agreed with him that loyalty meant everything. Loyalty to the cause was why she was here. With that thought in her head she pulled out a new sheet of parchment, flicked her wand and whispered the charm that turned it, ever so briefly, into a Protean. 

  1. _ ill. Y. v. interested in prophecy. Gave him a version. Added a bit. Not sure reason for interest_.

She hesitated for a moment, then wrote down the whole of the line she had added to the infamous prophecy. A quick second murmured charm and the words disappeared on their way to the small book Molly kept that served as a central communication point. Only a handful of people could manage the charm, which frustrated Hermione to no end. Neither Harry nor Ron could do it. Molly Weasley, however, was a remarkable witch.

"Sending out a report with all our secrets?" Draco asked.

"One good spy can save 100 lives,"Hermione said, not quite saying yes. "And you brought me here."

"I did," Draco said. He stood up, the secret she'd given him held so tightly in his hand the paper was wrinkling, and said, "I'll leave you to a quiet afternoon, if you don't mind. I should visit my father."

"How is he? "Hermione asked.

"You can ask him at dinner," Draco said. His smile bloomed at whatever look he saw before she was able to control her expression. "I am madly in love with you, darling," he said. "Of course we’ll eat with my parents. Make sure to dress for dinner. They’re old fashioned that way."

Then he was gone and she glared at the door in a fury before stomping to the wardrobe and throwing it open. There had to be something in there she could put on to dazzle that bastard.

There was something.

It was black. It was silk. It wrapped around her waist as though she were buttoning it on and the collar stood around her shoulders with stiff propriety. She smiled at herself with grim satisfaction and had the pleasure of seeing Malfoy’s eyes widen when he came to fetch her. “At least you’re pretty,” he said, and her satisfaction deflated a bit. It wasn’t the most effusive compliment she’d ever received. The collar, however, remained unbowed and she let her spine follow its lead.

“You as well,” she said. He had black on, of course, and the tight shirt made him seem even thinner. He looked almost gaunt, and pretty wasn’t really the word she’d use to describe him. Dramatic, maybe, or haunted. _You look like you could use a week at the shore and a lot of starchy food_, however, would sound like she cared. 

The thick carpets absorbed the tread of his shoes and the click of her heels and when she asked, “What happens if I leave my room without you,” it was into oppressive silence.

The silence continued for several steps and then he said, “You are a guest, here, Granger, not a prisoner. No one is locking you in your room.”

“Then I think I’ll just take myself home,” she said. She’d thought about that all afternoon as she paced from the sitting room in her suite to the bedroom. She’d thought about it as she stood under the hot water and tried to wash the feeling of his hand holding her down against that stone wall away. She’d thought about it as she resisted writing a desperate note to Ron, telling him how much she missed him. 

Love notes that had to get passed on by your boyfriend’s mother weren’t quite the thing.

“And give up the perfect opportunity to spy?” Draco asked. “Free range of Malfoy Manor, wand in hand, trusted by the besotted and indulged only son of the house?”

He tried to hide the slight tremor in his voice but she heard it anyway. It made her stop walking. “Malfoy,” she said. “What happens to you if I leave?”

“Nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he said. “Though I’m not sure where you would go. That safe house was burned to the ground.”

Hermione pictured the tiny house where she and the rest had stayed. It hadn’t been glamourous. The paint had been peeling, the sashes had sagged, and the faucets made a loud clonking sound before they spit out water that was sometimes brown. It surprised her how much it hurt to think of it raided and destroyed. “Since last night?” she asked. Now it was her voice that shook. They’d had no warning that the Death Eaters were so close. They’d had to clear out of places before, and more than once. But this time, other than Malfoy’s scramble to get them the portkeys and to get her into his house, there had been nothing.

“They’ve learned to move fast,” he said.

“You have,” she said.

He shrugged.

“What would they do to you,” she asked again. “If I took off?”

He took a deep breath. “Yaxley isn’t a sadist, you have to realize that,” he said. “Not like…not like _He_ was. But he thinks fear is an effective policy.” He looked down. “I think it makes it worse to watch,” he said. “_He_ was horrible. He’d laugh, and his eyes would gleam, and you could tell watching someone be crucioed did something to him, it excited him. But Yaxley… he has someone time the torture. If he’s sentenced you to ten minutes, it doesn’t matter if he gets bored, or someone comes in with news. If he turns his attention away to other matters, the spell goes on until your time is up.”

“How many times?” she asked. Her eyes had been pulled to the hand that had shaken that morning over breakfast. It wasn’t shaking now, but he had it pressed against the side of his trousers a little too casually and with a little too much pressure. “Malfoy, how many times?”

“Six,” he said. He kept his voice remarkably steady. 

Her throat went dry. “Once,” she whispered. She’d endured it once. 

“I know,” he said. “I remember.”

“And if you go?”

“My parents,” he said. A simple phrase, utter in its finality. He’d never leave. 

“Well,” she said. She wanted to reach over and take that hand he was keeping still but she thought he’d probably jerk it away from her touch. “Good thing for you your secrets are so interesting.”

“The food is also good,” he said. “I recommend we stop dawdling here and go eat it. My mother has a knack for letting you know she doesn’t approve of late arrivals and I’d hate for her to dislike you.”

Hermione snorted at that. Narcissa Malfoy disliked her for existing. She had to do mental gymnastics to find a way to accept the idea – or maybe the pretense of an idea – that her son might have fallen for a filthy, debasing Muggle-born. Being on time to dinner wouldn’t uncondemn her.

“Well,” Malfoy said, “dislike you more.” 

“Could she?” Hermione asked.

Draco Malfoy smiled at her with his perfect teeth and his narrow face and every edge promised, for just a moment, that under all those layers of self-preservation lay a predator. A sly one, maybe, but this man was not a rabbit hiding in the underbrush. He was the hawk. “I wouldn’t recommend underestimating how deeply my mother can hate on my behalf,” he said. “There is nothing she wouldn’t endure or do for family.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading this chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

Lucius Malfoy looked old. Hermione would have felt more sympathy that war had chewed him up and spat him out if he hadn’t been one of the people who’d helped to start it. He hadn’t shaved, and the shadow of blond stubble made his haggard face older. The shadows that flitted across his son’s face had moved in and taken up residence on his. Dark bags sat under his eyes and the harsh bone structure that made Draco compelling when he smiled just made Lucius look malnourished. His wine glass was already half empty.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione said as Draco Malfoy held her chair out. “How nice to see you again. It’s been several years.”

His mouth twisted at that. Good. He knew it was a jab. She might be able to muster sympathy and forgiveness of the slender man tucking her in to the table. Draco Malfoy had been a child tossed about like a cock between badminton rackets, desperate not to fall, pulled into a war he hadn’t had the experience or wisdom to avoid. Narcissa Malfoy put on slyness with her lipstick, and Hermione knew she’d lied to Voldemort to save Harry. That had let them all fight another day. She might not _like_ Narcissa Malfoy, but she could appreciate her in the same way she could appreciate Molly Weasley.

Lucius, though, Lucius Malfoy was another matter.

She’d last seen him at the Battle of Hogwarts. He’d looked worn in much the same way he looked worn now, and when Voldemort had fallen, he’d spared his former master not one look before he began to tear through the rubble to find his son.

But he also hadn’t stood against the rising power that had been Yaxley. He’d nodded and stepped aside and even supported the man. 

Bureaucracy had held off moral victory. She hoped Lucius Malfoy felt the bitter sting of what he might have done, the man he might have been, every time he looked at the way his son’s hands shook.

“You look well,” she added as he continued to stare at her.

Draco sat down across from her and pulled his napkin to his lap. The table had only been set for four. Apparently, this was to be an intimate family gathering. Lucky her.

“Dozens of girls your age at Hogwarts. Hundreds at Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and you want this one?” Lucius said. It was less of a question and more of a condemnation. He picked up his wine glass, drained it, and poured himself a second. Or maybe third. 

“She’s very pretty,” Draco said. 

“And clever,” Narcissa said. She smiled at her husband with real warmth. “You always liked a clever woman, my love.”

He grunted at that and Hermione inhaled and counted very slowly to five before saying, in as cheerful and perky a voice as she could manage, “What have you been doing since the end of the war, Mr. Malfoy?”

“End?” he asked her. “I thought you people didn’t acknowledge an end.”

She kept her smile loose with more effort than she would have expected to need. “Perspective is everything.”

“I,” Narcissa said, “have been working in the gardens and enjoying the slower pace of our days. Now that the Ministry has been rebuilt no one needs to use our property as a headquarters, though so many records and letters are still stored here that people do come and go to consult them all.”

“That must be a strain,” Hermione said. “My mother always disliked unexpected house calls.”

“Did she?” Narcissa took a sip of her wine, picked up a small bell and rang it, and Hermione watched as their plates filled with salad. “An intelligent woman who had an intelligent daughter.” She had her fork in her hand, greens half-lifted to her mouth before she added, almost as an afterthought, “Tomorrow, Draco, you must give Miss Granger the tour of the house. It’s large enough to be overwhelming at first.”

A house this large to shelter a family of three seemed like the worst kind of conspicuous wealth. Who needed a house so big you could get lost, Hermione thought to herself with smug approval of her own, far more modest, way of life. Then she flicked her glance at the blandly eating Narcissa Malfoy and considered this house filled with government documents. “A tour would be nice,” she said. “Architecture has always been an interest of mine.”

“I’m sure a girl like you didn’t see anything like this in your Muggle life,” Lucius Malfoy said. His lips curled in disdain and he drank more.

Hermione poked the tines of her fork into a tomato. “No,” she said. “We were middle class.”

“Slightly more than that,” Narcissa said. When Hermione shifted in her chair, a bit startled, Narcissa added, “Both of your parents were the Muggle equivalent of Healers, were they not?”

Hermione nodded.

“Quite respectable,” she said as if that ended the matter, as if _class_ rather than _blood status_ were the real issue and, even if that were true, as if the daughter of two dentists – hardly a poor family – could compete with this kind of ancestral wealth. “And we were both always friendly with Severus, dear, may his soul rest in peace. Talent should be nurtured.”

“Severus was Slytherin,” Lucius said.

Hermione was not sure she relished being compared to Snape.

“Severus was brilliant,” Narcissa said. “And very cunning.”

“And brave,” Hermione said. She met Narcissa’s eyes. “Don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Narcissa said. She took another bite of her salad, thus removing herself from the need to comment further. 

“Well, she is pretty enough,” Lucius said with a laconic shrug before he picked up the wine bottle again. “If that’s the sort of girl you want.”

“I will have no other,” Draco said. He was pushing the greens around on his plate using the age old tactic of a child hiding he doesn't like something. “She is perfect.”

He smiled at her across the table and Hermione forced a tentative smile back. “You flatter me,” she said. 

“Perfect for me,” he corrected himself.

“That was my mother’s bracelet,” Lucius said abruptly. He was staring at her wrist and Hermione looked down at the diamonds. Well, now she knew where Malfoy had gotten it.

“And now it is your daughter’s,” Draco said. 

Hermione almost choked on the salad in her mouth. As she raised her napkin to her mouth in a fit of coughing, Draco added, “Assuming she grows to feel as warmly for me as I do for her.”

“She’d be a fool to turn you down,” Lucius said. "Are you a fool, Miss Granger?"

"I'm a woman who likes to make up her own mind," Hermione said. 

They managed not to say anything else as they finished their salads, Narcissa rang her bell, and what remained of the greens disappeared, quickly replaced by plates of roast beef and potatoes tossed with what might have been beets. Hermione stabbed one of them and tasted it. Definitely sliced and roasted beets. Lucius continued to drink.

Draco continued to push his food around, taking desultory bites and chewing each of them for too long. By the time they reached dessert, the conversational pitfalls she'd been dodging had left Hermione exhausted. At least the sherry trifle dessert was excellent but by the time she'd eaten the last bite all Hermione wanted to do was fall into the bed they'd provided for her and sleep.

Lucius had one last thing to say. When she stood up to go he eyed the wand tucked into her waist and said, "You let her keep that?"

Draco paused. "She's my guest," he said at last. The words were too careful. "I do not feel my suit would go well if I tried to strip her of her wand."

"I can guarantee it would not," Hermione said. It took a real effort not to reach her hand to close her fingers around the precious stick of wood as if that would protect it if these people decided she would be more compliant without it. 

"And Alecto Carrow has already been a problem," Draco went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I can hardly ask her to stay in her room, and I don't think it would be wise for her to walk about unescorted without one."

Hermione kept herself together until they'd bid the elder Malfoy's good night and the door had closed behind them. Then she sagged against the wall and closed her eyes. Draco Malfoy waited patiently, seemingly unperturbed by her sudden weakness. When she looked at him again he was examining his fingernails. "That went well," he said.

Hermione gave him a look that he read easily. _Well?_ the look said. _Are you serious?_

He glanced at the shut door, then offered her his arm. "I know my affection has come as a bit of a surprise to you," he said. "My father was equally flabbergasted. It will take him - take many of the hard-liners - more time to come around to the idea that I am quite serious. They do tend to see you as an Order member at best and a -," he hesitated and then stopped.

She was the one who had to say, "A mudblood."

"Right," he said. "That. At worst."

"Which I am."

"Which does not impact - "

"- your deep and abiding love for me," she said. "Right. I know."

He sighed. "Can I walk you back to your room?" he asked. 

"Do you want a goodnight kiss?"

"Not especially."

And with that dry comment she pulled herself off the wall, took the arm he still held out for her, and let Draco Malfoy lead her through the halls of his ancestral home, past curious portraits, and leave her at her door. She locked it and stood under the hot water of the shower for a long time. When she finally lay down she tucked her wand under her pillow and wondered, as she stared off into the darkness, what Malfoy was thinking. 

Six bouts of crucio.

She couldn't wrap her mind around that horror.

Did he wake up screaming from the memory? She had for longer than she cared to admit. He seemed to be out of the thick of whatever politics and plots Yaxley was brewing, just the worthless son of an aristocrat. 

Being an unimportant failure probably kept him safe.

With that thought, she was able to relax into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta love to Salazars, who nudged me into cleaning up a grotty bit of awkward language.


	8. Chapter 8

“She’s very pretty,” Hermione said as Draco led her to another one of the portraits lining a wide corridor. So far, the tour of Malfoy Manor had been unpleasantly reminiscent of a school trip through a third rate museum. The Malfoys had a lot of art on the walls, mostly portraits of ancestors, and she had dutifully admired more badly painted pictures than she cared to remember. This one was, as she had said, pretty. A very pale, very thin woman in an overwhelming set of robes pulled back into a bustle tapped her fan against one hand as she looked out at them. Hermione had often wondered how much independent thought portraits had. The ones at Hogwarts had seemed like fully realized people but Walburga, probably still screaming her hatreds from the wall in Grimmauld Place, had been more of a film on short, eternal loop. She couldn’t tell what this woman thought of them, or if she thought at all.

Maybe the blotches of paint left around her throat by an artist who seemed to have been dabbling in modernism before his time impeded her ability to tell them off.

“She was my great-great-grandmother,” Malfoy said. 

Hermione squinted at the plaque hung on the wall. Honestly, who hung placards near the art on the wall? The pretension made her roll her eyes. _Lollia Malfoy_ it read. _1863 – 1971. Beloved wife and philanthropist. _ “She looks like you,” she said.

Malfoy looked down at her and grinned. “Pretty?” he asked. For a moment, he seemed mischievous and delightful. She resisted the urge to smack him on the arm the way she would have with Ron or Harry if they’d been teasing her that way.

“Blonde,” Hermione said. Blonde and too thin. Lollia looked fragile. She was young in the portrait and she looked like her giant black dress had swallowed her whole and it was all she could do to keep from dissolving within it. She’d lived a long life. Perhaps by the end she’d been less frightened looking and more formidable.

Draco stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her and she was about to protest when she heard the footsteps. “Showtime,” he murmured against her skin. “Try to seem overwhelmed and a little scared.”

She shivered. She might have snapped that he hadn’t cared how she acted at dinner with his parents, or with the Carrows, but she shut her mouth when she saw Yaxley. He’d taken to having himself referred to as _Lord_ Yaxley in the papers and then modestly refusing to accept the title whenever anyone asked him about it and she hated that as much as she hated everything about him. He was a vile man even for the company he ran in. He had several Ministry sycophants – or thugs – in tow but the way his stride stopped when he saw the pair of them sent a chill down her spine. 

He wasn’t here for the art.

Lollia had spread her fan and hidden her face behind it. Hermione wished she could do the same. It was easy to forget when you were sitting around a table calling him _that memo-wanking asslick_ that Yaxley had presence. He radiated power and confidence and utter surety he could do whatever he wished. If he said a sunny day was damp, no one would dare argue.

Including her.

“Young Malfoy,” he said in greeting. He didn’t acknowledge her and Hermione hated that she was grateful he considered her too insignificant to greet. “I received your mother’s owl.”

“I hope you were pleased,” Malfoy said.

“Very. But I was less pleased to learn that Potter has managed to slip the trap again,” Yaxley said. “Your information would have had no value if he were dead.”

Malfoy’s arms tightened on her. “I’m not sure – ,” he began.

“As he should be dead,” Yaxley went on. “As he would be if they hadn’t taken your interest in that one as reason to run.”

“I didn’t -,” Malfoy tried again and Hermione shrank back against him. Her knees had become weak and every part of her mind screamed to run before Yaxley ordered her taken into custody. Before he ordered her hurt. Before he ordered her questioned. 

He did none of those things.

“She had best continue to be worth it,” Yaxley said. “What you sent – what your mother sent – was reason to let you go on.”

“I - .”

“You will see me tonight after dinner,” Yaxley said. He tipped his head to Hermione and briefly smiled. “I look forward to dancing at your wedding, Miss Granger, assuming your defection continues to prove worthwhile.”

He glanced down at an antique watch that had to be more jewellery and affection than anything else, and strode off, a man with a country to run, meetings to attend, more people to terrorize. His gaggle followed after, one pausing to smirk at Hermione. The look stripped her down to her knickers. Her heart froze. She wanted to pull her wand out and go for him the same way she had attacked Alecto the day before, but Malfoy whispered, “Don’t,” in her ear and she clenched her fists instead. 

When they were all gone, he pulled her through a small door she hadn’t even noticed, down a dusty, narrow corridor, and then into a room that had to have been meant for a servant. The furniture had been turned into white ghosts by the sheets draped over it, but he yanked one aside, filling the air with dust, and pushed her down on the bare mattress huddled on a metal bed frame.

“None of them will come here,” he said.

“They think I defected,” she said at the same time. The words were almost a question and he shrugged. How many half-lies had he spun? 

He sank down next to her and closed his eyes. After a few deep breaths he said, “I used to play hide and seek in the house as a boy. There are a lot of these old corridors with rooms for nursemaids, people like that.”

“Hide and seek?” Hermione asked. She could hear the tremor in her voice. She’d hadn’t come face to face with Yaxley in years. They’d tried to assassinate him often enough, but he didn’t go anywhere without guards so fanatically loyal there’d been speculation he imperioused them. They threw themselves in front of curses. They used hexes so nasty people bled to death before hitting the ground just on suspicion of a potential attack. He’d said he’d dance at her wedding. Her _wedding_ and she’d expected him to order her dragged away, to strip her wand from her. She wanted to talk about anything other than what had just happened. She didn’t want to think about what might have been. “I thought you were an only child. Who played with you?”

“No one.” Draco Malfoy rubbed his hands against his trousers. “I pretended someone was after me and I had to hide.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. How bleak she thought that sounded must have shown in her voice because he let out a little laugh.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said. “I had a vivid imagination.”

“Sure,” she said. The dust lay so thick on the floor she could see their footsteps. “I used to read. Mostly history. Did you know we had a queen who only lasted for nine days?”

“Muggle queen?” She nodded and he asked, “What happened to her?”  
  


“They cut her head off.”

“Figures.”

She wasn’t sure whether that meant it figured Muggles were the sorts who cut off queens’ heads, or it figured the only way to get rid of a ruler was to kill her. Maybe he meant it figured she read books about political upheaval. History was all about toilets, food, and upheaval.

At least her present had plenty of food and clean toilets. She’d learned to value those over the past few years. She’d still trade them for one good upheaval, though. 

Malfoy stood up. “One of the things people forget,” he said, “is that these old houses all have warrens of rooms like this.”

“Don’t want to see servants in the halls with the real people,” Hermione said.

“Well, that was the idea, yes,” he said. He held his hand down to her and she sighed and took it. No point in being stubborn about sitting on a narrow bed in a close room just to refuse to stand when he asked. “And people like my father like having their late-night drinks brought to them discretely.”

“Isn’t that what elves are for?” Hermione asked.

“You need a human staff too,” Draco said. “You’re lucky to get one elf to latch on to your family. Enough to keep house while you entertain dozens of people, keep them all fed, keep the place clean? Doesn’t happen.”

“Hogwarts,” she said.

“The exception,” he said. “Malfoy Manor, Nott Manor, even the old Crouch place – they all have rooms like this, halls like this, small doors that lead into private rooms so the women carrying your clean laundry don’t clutter up the main hallways.”

Hermione had to tamp down the class resentment she felt just burbling up in her soul and listen. “Where does this set of narrow passages lead?” she asked.

He smiled. “Trust me enough to let me show you?”

“I thought you said trust no one,” she said, but she let him lead her onward.

The hall had more small rooms off it, each with a similar set up: sheet draped over bed or beds, a small stand for a water pitcher, no window. At the fourth room, Malfoy did more than just open the door so she could see. He held it so she could walk in and he pointed at the one thing that was different. This room also had a door at the back wall. He listened at it, then turned the knob very carefully.

Hermione looked through the doorway straight at the back of a tapestry. Malfoy listened again, then slipped along the wall and out. She followed him then sucked in her breath. Tasteless green curtains defiled what Hermione had already come to recognize was Narcissa Malfoy’s taste. A green carpet with a dark stain had been thrown over the floor, but the rest of the room was a gentleman’s office of sorts. A heavy desk loomed over two leather chairs that cowered at its feet. A long table covered with boxes sat against one wall.

She made a tiny, questioning noise, and when he waved her toward them, she almost ran. She pried off the lid of the first and began to pull out paper. With each fistful, her heart beat faster. There were letters. Notes. Copies of agendas collected after meetings. Someone had liked to draw dementors in the margins of hers. Records and records and records, all spread before her. She stared at Malfoy in near wonder. He had walked, quiet as a cat, to the main door and had his ear pressed against it. He smiled at her and gave her that little shrug again. _Do what you want_, the shrug said. She returned to pulling page after page out of just the first box. Most of it was worthless, she was sure. But some of it would be beyond price. 

She’d been there an hour that felt like a moment, Malfoy never stirring from the door, when he suddenly moved back to the tapestry. She grabbed the three sheets she’d set to the side, shoved everything back, and followed him, back behind the tapestry of what she noticed for the first time was an orange cat sitting by a pair of black boots, and thence back to the servant’s room and corridor.

She was afraid to make even the smallest of sounds but she flung her arms around Draco Malfoy and hugged him as hard as she could, crumbled sheets of parchment shoved down into her pocket next to her wand.

He stood within her embrace as they listened to feet moving around in the room they’d just left, and muffled coughing. At last, he raised his arms and returned the hug. She would have expected it to be polite and awkward but instead he clung to her like a desperate man. 

She looked over at the narrow servants’ door. _Fuck you_, she thought at whoever still moved around in that horrid office. _I’ll see you dead. _We’ll_ see you dead._

** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Salazars, who beta read this chapter, and to all of you reading it.


	9. Chapter 9

It took all afternoon for Hermione to copy the documents she’d stolen so they’d appear in Molly’s book. _Things OK_, she wrote_. _ She thought about adding more. Should she say that Narcissa had practically ordered her son to show her how to access all this information, or that the boy they’d hated for years had been more than happy to help? Maybe it was better to keep that to herself. Maybe no one would believe her anyway.

_all fine here_ was the only return message she’d gotten. It wasn’t very much. She wanted to know everything. She wanted to know if Ginny was still getting better, if Ron missed her, if they were planning on making raids. She didn’t even know if they were still on the continent. They might have slipped back into the country. They might be up the road.

It was probably better for her not to know. They had to assume she was unreliable. Even if she didn’t fall in to some kind of false, desperate love with Malfoy, she could be found out. She could be sobbing in some parlor right now, telling a Death Eater everything for all the Order knew. It was better to keep her ignorant.

It didn’t mean she liked it.

Malfoy watched her copy all the things out. He sat in her suite, legs outstretched, as she wrote sentence after sentence in handwriting that grew steadily worse. She didn’t even know if this would be helpful and as her hand cramped she became less and less optimistic it would. Who cared about lists of the various wizards who’d met with Yaxley, or the cryptic notations next to each name?

When she finally put down her quill and shook out her hand she looked over at Malfoy. He hadn’t moved for hours and it reminded her of nothing so much as the way Victor Krum had watched her study in happier days. “All done?” Malfoy asked.

She nodded and he _accioed_ the parchment to his hand and, with a quick _incendio_ charm, obliterated any evidence of their theft. “My mother will be in her room tonight with a headache,” Malfoy said. “I’ll have dinner be sent to you, if you don’t mind.”

“Headache?” Hermione glanced at the window. It was still light, still hours from when she’d expected to have to put on a command performance and he’d been with her all day. How could he possibly know the state of his mother’s head?

“Whenever Yaxley appears, she gets one,” Malfoy said. 

“Oh.” Hermione wondered if the pains were real or if Narcissa simply refused to entertain the man and had hit upon a socially acceptable way to never be available. She watched the charm take the last batch of her work to Molly and touched the paper as if she could touch her friends that way. Draco watched her but said nothing. He only stood, nodded to her with distant courtesy, and let himself out.

She considered going for a walk out to the gardens again, or just exploring through the house. Despite Malfoy’s assurances she was a guest, however, and despite the wand still in her possession, she decided she didn’t want to risk it. She found a book on the shelves and curled up to read all about the history of gardening with partially sentient plants – it turned out several species of magical roses were just smart enough to jab thorns into passers-by who didn’t praise them for their beauty - and spent the afternoon and early evening having an almost pleasant time. It would have been wholly pleasant if she hadn’t felt like she had to be on her guard. At least the tray that appeared on her table at precisely 7:30 had a good meal laid out for her.

Books. A comfortable room. A delicious dinner. After years of privation it felt almost sinful. Expiation for those sins arrived shortly after nine, when she’d long finished the Hogwarts Mess that had ended the meal and was about to finish the book. A loud knock at the door had her grabbing her wand and calling out, “Who’s there,” even as she lifted the latch and cautiously turned the knob, ready to hex anyone on the other side.

It was Malfoy.

He stumbled forward then fell to his knees. She looked as far as she dared down the corridor but it was safely empty, then shut the door as quickly as she could and fastened the lock. Then she turned back to Malfoy. He was still down on his hands and knees and was coughing blood up onto the cream carpet. His hair was slick with sweat, he trembled with every breath, and what little color his skin had had drained away leaving his fair complexion wan and ghastly.

“What happened to you?” she asked, but she knew. She remembered.

“This makes seven,” he said and then coughed again. She _accioed_ a washcloth from the en suite, dampened it with a quick _aguamenti_ charm and wiped at his face. She didn’t think it would do much good but it was all she really had. 

“Why?” she asked. She sat down next to him. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, but she stroked it anyway as he collapsed into her lap and shook. _Crucio_ wasn’t a curse she had a lot of experience with. Death Eaters didn’t bother to torture people on the battlefield. They cursed to kill. They saved this kind of suffering for prisoners and their own. She wanted to grab pain potions she didn’t have and pour them down his throat. She wanted to be a Healer who knew what to do, but all she had was a damp washcloth and sympathy.

Well, rage. She had rage, too. She just didn’t think that would help.

He lay on her floor, breathing hard, and didn’t answer for a long time. She moved his hair back from his face and thought how very pale it was. Each strand was almost translucent. How odd it must be to be so lacking in color. She wiped the blood away from his mouth with her cloth and tried not to look at what was sure to be a stain on the carpet. The carpet was probably priceless. One more beautiful thing ruined by these people.

She hoped he’d just bitten the inside of his mouth. She hoped he didn’t have internal bleeding. 

“Getting you to come to our side, even if I was thinking with my… my cock,” he began, before he stopped, stumbling over the crudity. Hermione tried not to be amused that her childhood bully was embarrassed to be vulgar in front of her now. If he had any idea of the language she’d heard from Ron and Harry and Dean and the whole lot of them he’d know she wouldn’t bat an eye at the word.

Of course, he didn’t know anything about her other than her blood status and her marks at school.

“Yes,” she said, “Your cock.”

She must not have completely hidden her amusement because he lifted his head and glared at her before dropping it back down in defeated exhaustion. “I’m to be commended for that,” he said. “Getting you here.”

“Which made them torture you?” she asked. 

“My youthful ardor alerted Potter,” Malfoy said. He twisted _youthful ardor_ into something hateful with his tongue and she knew he was quoting Yaxley.

“So, you were punished for his escape,” she said. She should have anticipated that. 

He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “And told that since you were such a marvelous witch, I should restrict my… I should come to you for help after. No one else.”

“And here you are,” she said. She had to keep from curling her hands into fists. She didn’t know what to do and Yaxley had to have suspected she wouldn’t. Healing was a specialized skill with specialized charms and she was a fighter. A researcher. He’d known and he’d wanted Draco to suffer for as long as possible and he’d wanted her to see it. “Who?” she asked. He stirred in her lap and she asked again, “Who tortured you?”

“Alecto,” he said.

She tried to hide the choked sound of fury. Of course it had been Alecto. The bitch had probably wanted to get even for the rose garden incident. Draco let out a pained attempt at a laugh and said, “Yeah.”

She eased back so she could lean against the wall. He wasn’t going anywhere, not even to a more comfortable place to lie down, not for a while, so she might as well get settled. She smoothed his hair again and tipped her head back. The ceiling here was nice. Tidy half-circles has been traced in the plaster as it dried. She’d started to count them when he said, “Talk to me.”

The words sounded too plaintive. She didn’t like it. She preferred him as the arrogant, smirking opaque enemy. She preferred him as the laconic, sullen man pushing vegetables around his plate as he fenced with his parents. Hell, she preferred him as the schoolyard bully. Anything was better than the whispering plea to distract him from the pain. She’d heard that from Ginny. She’d heard that from Dean. She didn’t want to hear it ever again.

“About what?” she asked.

He went to make a tiny shrug then stopped, to weak and hurting to expend the energy. “You?” he suggested.

She let out a weak laugh. “Not much to tell,” she said. “I left Hogwarts with Harry to find Horcruxes. Found them. Killed Voldemort. Thought everything was better.”

Everything hadn’t been better. Within months they’d gone back into hiding. Seamus had died in an explosion gone wrong. Dean hadn’t talked for a week after that. Luna had gotten weirder and weirder, and every conversation with her now was about some conspiracy or other. She needed the delusion that the world had a pattern and made sense but even as she clung to those ideas she’d become more and more deadly. She killed without remorse now.

“You still with Weasley?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. She owed Malfoy for Ron’s life. For her life. For all their lives. “We were starting to talk about getting married.”

“That’s nice,” Malfoy said. “He’ll wait until you – “

“Get out of here?” Hermione asked. She kept losing count of how many of the plaster patterns there were the long way across the ceiling. She sighed and gave up trying to number them. “Yeah, he’ll wait.”

“I would too,” Malfoy said. “For someone I loved, I’d wait as long as it took.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said. She believed him. He’d stayed here with his parents when he could have fled easily enough. Whatever building blocks made the foundation of the man in her lap, loyalty was one of them. “He’s a good one.”

Malfoy snorted and she laughed. He had to be feeling at least a little better if he could manage that. “You think you can make it to the bed?” she asked.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her in what had to be disbelief. “You aren’t going to make it back to your room,” she said. “The bed is softer than the floor.” She hesitated before adding, “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

That got him to struggle back to his knees, then his feet, and she helped him hobble across the room, into the bedroom, and tucked him into her bed. He fell asleep almost at once, worn out by pain and exhaustion. She watched him until she was tired enough to sleep in the arm chair. It wasn’t comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ‘Hogwarts Mess’ is a verbal play on the British dessert, Eton Mess. 
> 
> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading! I own all the remaining mistakes.


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m going to kill her.”

It was the first thing she said to Malfoy when he opened his eyes. He closed them again. It took more than a single night to recover from _crucio_ but he was alive and breathing so no long-term harm done. Well, no _fatal_ long-term harm done. People said you didn’t remember pain, and Hermione supposed that was true. Being hurt like that still left scars all down your soul.   
  


Six times he’d gotten up from that. Seven, now. No wonder he’d decided to make sure Harry escaped. No wonder he’d slipped freedom to the Order. 

“Alecto,” Hermione said as he lay there. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Can I watch?” Malfoy asked. She could see when he figured out where he was and how he’d gotten there by the expressions on his face. He was less guarded when he was half awake, but as consciousness pushed him back to the world his mask returned as well. “And good morning to you, too.”

She took that as permission to check his forehead and reassure herself he wasn’t burning up. No fever. No obvious shakes. He did reek of stale sweat, but, all things considered, he was doing well. “Shower?” she asked. “Breakfast?”

He struggled to prop himself up on one elbow and she winced in sympathy. Maybe you didn’t forget _all_ the pain. “Wand?” he asked her, but he was already reaching down and grabbing for it. She hadn’t pulled it from him and neither had his torturers. They’d made him submit to their punishment without fighting back despite the weapon at his side. She didn’t think she’d have been able to do that.

He pulled his wand and mumbled some charm, flicked it down and up, then smiled at her through the fringe of dirty hair. “Breakfast,” he said. “In a bit, at least. Usually takes a while to get it made and apparated up.”

“Elves?” she asked.

He snorted. “Potter took care of that,” he said. “Mother hires day help from an agency. Fully human. Fully paid, in case you’re planning to get riled.”

“Good to know,” she said.

He swung his feet out and looked at the shoes. “You didn’t even take those off?” he asked.

She quirked her brows up and crossed her arms. “You don’t like how I took care of you?” she asked. “Maybe you should give me a run down on how you prefer it for next time.” She was mostly kidding though she could hear the sharp edge under the words. He heard them too, but decided to stick with the teasing.

“Next time I want a naughty nurse outfit,” he said. “And heels. But I can’t fault this.”

“I’ll try to put heels on you,” she said. “But if this happens again you’ll have to change into the nurse outfit without my help.”

Unbelievably, he laughed. He winced at the way the laughter rolled through his body, but he didn’t stop. She shook her head and waved him toward the shower.

By the time he’d emerged, two trays had appeared laden with breakfast foods. He’d somehow charmed his clothes clean and he looked pressed, shaven, and altogether like a man who had never known a moment’s anxiety or strain. Only when she looked closely at his eyes could she see the way he pulled skin tight across his face whenever he wasn’t consciously forcing himself to relax. She touched his hand. “Sugar in your tea?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he said. 

She poured, and he drank, and they tore croissants into neat halves and ate them all without saying more. He’d finished his second cup of heavily sweetened black tea when she asked, “Now what?”

He looked down at his fingers. He’d neglected to trim his nails and she could see jagged tears on some fingers. He’d probably clawed his hands into the floor as he screamed the night before. “You pretend to fall for me?” he suggested. 

“We keep sending things off?” she asked. She wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to stop. If he were too afraid to go on. She’d still slip into the passage next to Lollia. She’d still steal documents. He’d shown her where they were. He didn’t need to risk himself. If she were caught alone they’d kill her, but she’d expected so much worse when she’d arrived. 

“We do,” he said. He smiled a little grimly. “I can listen at the doors while you find what might help.”

She nodded, a little too jerkily, and felt the sting of something burning at the corner of her eyes. He stretched a foot – still shoeless – out under the table and nudged her. “It will be okay,” he said. 

“Eventually, yes,” she said. She was going to tear these people down one memo at a time. She was going to find the proverbial rope they’d left out and send it, loop by loop, to Molly until they had so much they could use it to hang every last one of these monsters. But she’d only been here two days and it already seemed unbearable. “How do you stand it?” she asked.

“I just think how lucky I am to have found you,” he said.

“Right,” she said. Sharing time seemed to be over. She pushed her chair back from the small table and said, “Shall we take a walk and drip our growing love all over the gardens for these people to see?”

“I would be delighted,” he said. He hesitated for a moment as though he wanted to add something else, but in the end just put his shoes back on and held the door open for her in silence.

The house felt still as they walked through it. Portraits watched them with hooded eyes but even the shadows seemed frozen. We are all waiting, Hermione thought to herself. What are we waiting for?

The gardens were better. The sun shone with aggressive light and the flowers shoved their heads toward the sky. It was bright and harsh and beautiful and Malfoy positioned them both on a stone terrace bordered by spiky herbs and flicked a glance up toward the dark windows that peered out. “Showtime?” he asked.

She scuffed a toe along the edge of one stone and looked down, trying to summon as much bashful virtue as she could. “We have an audience?” she asked.

“Unless the curtains just twitched on their own,” he said. “I’d say we do.”

He took one of her hands in his and twined his fingers through hers. She remembered the first time she’d held Ron’s hand that way. It had felt like coming home. Now she heard his voice in her head. _You're asking her to whore for us. _ She looked up into Malfoy’s grey eyes and said, “Well, kissing, then?”

He nodded and wrapped one arm around her lower back so he could pull her closer to him, then lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers. He’d been spitting blood out of that mouth the night before. That had been easier to cope with. She could feel his heart pounding, and the tremors that were surely endless small aftershocks running through his body. His mouth was soft and he was so wiry and she tried to think of anything but the way they were putting on a show for their unknown watchers. 

He moved his mouth to her neck and as he trailed a line of kisses along her skin he whispered, “I am sorry about this.”

She turned to capture his mouth again. “It’s fine,” she said. She opened her mouth under the tentative pressure of his tongue and lifted a hand to twine in his hair. It was still damp from his shower, and so very fine. It was so unlike the hair of anyone she’d ever known this well.

He pulled away a bit and looked at her. “At least I’m pretty,” he said. 

Her eyes widened and the laugh he tricked out of her rang across the yard. “Yeah,” she said. “You are.”

He hesitated for a moment, then traced one thumb along her jaw line. “You are too,” he said. “Kissing you isn’t quite the hardship I’d feared.”

She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kiss him again at that to show him how very much _not_ a hardship snogging her could be or just haul off and slap him. She did neither. Whoever was watching them didn’t need to see them go at it with _that_ much enthusiasm, and she doubted it was quite in character for Draco Malfoy, of the arrogant and wealthy ‘some-wizarding-families-are-better-than-others’ Malfoys to pant in lust on his back patio. 

Which she could absolutely make him do.

All she did was say, “Well, that’s good, I guess.”

“We’ve probably done enough,” he said. “Tonight will be exhausting enough without – “

“Tonight?” she interrupted him. What was tonight?

He looked guilty, which made her immediately annoyed and nervous. “I meant to tell you,” he said, “But – “

“Torture,” she said. 

“It is an excellent excuse,” he said. 

“Just don’t use it again,” she said.

“I don’t intend to.”

She took his hand. “I meant it, you know,” she said. “I’ll kill her.”

“Well,” he said, “don’t do it tonight.”

“Which brings us back too…”

“There’s a party,” he said. “A cocktail thing. Mother was pressured into hosting it months ago. Food, a talk about the new direction of the Ministry. No Yaxley. Just sycophants, but – “

“Sounds delightful,” she muttered. 

He squeezed his fingers around hers. “I think you can hold your own,” he said. “Just remember that I’m in love to the point of obsession, you were happy to use that to get a ticket to the winning side, and that you’re perhaps succumbing to my charms.”

“You have charms?” she asked.

“I have a big house,” he said. “People have fallen in love for less.”

She had no reply for that cynical observation so she let him lead her back to the rose garden where they passed a pleasant hour praising the flowers and pretending this was normal. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione felt ridiculous. She felt like she was fourteen again. Checking to see if Molly had sent her anything didn’t make a note arrive, but she checked when she got in from the rose garden, she checked before she went out to snitch more old memos from their storage boxes, she checked when she got back before she began the laborious project of copying out information on Yaxley’s friends in continental Ministries.

He had more than she would have expected.

When she finished and sent the words on their way, she waited for something. For _anything_. We’re good. Everyone misses you. At last words appeared.

_Good work_. _Got it. _

She looked at the impersonal acknowledgement and wanted to cry. That wasn’t reasonable. She was a spy. They had no idea whether she was already compromised. They had no certainty she wouldn’t have a Death Eater push the door to her room open right now and grab her betrayal of them out of her fingers. This was vague enough to be explained away. This was safe.

“I miss you,” she whispered, then set about burning the evidence. The whole copying job had taken so long she’d have to rush to make herself look presentable for the next chore: fooling bigots at their own party.

She didn’t think that played to her strengths.

Ginny would have made a better spy. Malfoy’s first instinct on how to choose had been right. Ginny was clever, and had survived that whole year at Hogwarts while she’d been out camping. Her fears that she’d fail, that no one would believe Malfoy had fallen for her, the mudblood, that she couldn’t pull it off, all licked at her brain as she twisted her hair back and pulled on a party dress that, for no reason she could fathom, was made from black satin printed with swans. 

She’d been attacked by a rather dim swan once. She thought of them as nasty, vicious birds. Pretty enough, but best observed from a distance.

She strapped sandals on and watched them neatly resize themselves to her feet. Malfoy – or his mother – had gone all out on the wardrobe. She wasn’t sure what shoes like this cost, but she suspected they fell into that vast category of ‘if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.’

A few quick cosmetic charms, learned courtesy of Ginny who’d despaired of ever teaching her to value girly things, and she was ready to go.

Ginny would have been better at this.

She checked one more time to see if Molly had added anything else, any encoded personal message, but the paper remained resolutely blank. 

Malfoy knocked at her door, the ever-attentive date with the big house, and she shoved feelings down, checked her appearance in the mirror one last time, then went to do what she had to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading!


	11. Chapter 11

Narcissa greeted them at the door with a hug for her son and an air kiss for Hermione. “You look lovely,” she said. “Like a song.”

Hermione had no idea whether she was supposed to air kiss in return or not. She settled on _not_. Instead she just said, “You as well.” It was the truth. Narcissa had swept her hair up into something elegant and chic and wholly unattainable by anyone with a hint of curl. The robes she wore left no confusion that she’d kept what was commonly called one’s girlish figure. She was slender and so upright her back kept the corset she wore straight rather than the other way around.

“Doesn’t she look nice,” Narcissa said to Lucius. He eyed Hermione as he leaned on his cane and managed a smile that looked a bit forced.

“Of course she does,” he said. “You picked out the robes.”

“You also look dashing,” Hermione said. That was less true. He looked tired and ill and it was clear that while the cane might have been an affectation in earlier years it wasn’t now.

“Enjoy the party,” Narcissa said.

Now it was Hermione’s smile that was forced. She looked out of the room as Draco led her in a straight line toward a passing caterer. He plucked two flutes of champagne from the tray, pressed one into her hand, and she took a nervous sip. It probably wasn’t wise to drink. She’d lose her head. Antonin Dolohov strode by, dressed all in black, and she took a much larger swallow from her glass.

Screw sobriety.

So many people were in black you’d think it was a funeral. Death Eaters in laced corsets, Death Eaters in bespoke suits they had to have gone into the Muggle world and sullied themselves on Savile Row to purchase, Death Eaters in get ups so absurd and unflattering she wanted to nudge Draco Malfoy with her elbow and share a snicker that anyone would think a morning jacket with tights and a black pirate’s shirt should be worn with heels right out of a bad Restoration comedy. She spotted not one, not two, but _three_ black ruffled collars that were pure Tudor. 

Wizards often dressed badly.

Malfoy, at least, had kept himself to the bespoke suit option. She finally couldn’t resist when one of the Tudor-bedecked wizards strolled by and leaned over to whisper, “You look wonderful, but maybe one of those collars next time?”

“I thought you didn’t quite hate me anymore,” he murmured back, one hand resting possessively on her lower back. “Apparently I should reevaluate if you want me to wear that.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said. She leaned into his side, feigning coupledom as a witch with a conspicuously bare arm walked past and eyed them both. Had she joined after Voldemort had died or just never merited a Mark? Hermione hoped it was the latter but suspected it wasn’t. People kept flocking to this side because everyone loves a winner. It was safer to say Yaxley was a good fellow, maybe a bit of a hard-liner but sometimes law and order were what you needed. It was necessary for promotion in some places to smile and nod in the right places in conversations. 

It all made her so very angry.

Even Draco Malfoy, raised to this tripe, had realized it was wrong. Even Draco Malfoy wanted the Order to win. Maybe his motives were a little self-centered – she suspected seven_ crucios_ could help you form a very hostile opinion of the current government – but he wasn’t just keeping his head down. He was doing something, _risking_ something.

No, she couldn’t hate anyone like that.

The witch gliding toward them, however, with her glittering smile and her dark Mark necklace, was hateable. More than hateable.

“Hermione Granger,” the woman said in the falsest tone Hermione had ever heard. “What an utter delight to see you here.”

“Have we met?” Hermione asked.

“No,” the woman cooed. “I’m Malloren Rookwood.” She held her hand out and Hermione looked at it for a long, long moment before taking it. Malloren’s fingers sat limply in her grasp. “I’ve never met a Mud…Muggle-born before,” she said. “What’s it like?”

“Being Muggle-born?” Hermione tried to keep her voice level. “I’m afraid it’s all I’ve known, so I can’t really give you a good answer.”

A wizard wearing a frock coat joined them. “I knew a Muggle-born before the war,” he said. “I wonder what happened to her.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause at that.

“Of course, everything’s different now,” Malloren said brightly. “Look at you, right here!” 

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Things do change.”

“She was the brightest witch in our year,” Draco said. He sounded bored. “Did you pass any of your N.E.W.T.s, Mally?”

“School isn’t everything,” Malloren said defensively before taking a gulp of her wine. Hermione assumed the answer had to be no. Malloren had not passed any of her examinations. She wasn’t surprised. She knew Malfoy had passed Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Potions, and perhaps more. She had seven to her name. It made her feel unpleasantly smug that they had both trounced this woman academically. 

“A Muggle-born just opened a shop in Diagon Alley,” the man said, interrupting her thoughts. “Nice man, very polite when I went in. I think it’s great to see them trying to acclimate.”

“Good for him,” Malloren said. She took a sip of her wine, leaving a red smear on the glass where her lipstick touched it. “I think that’s admirable. They should find their place in our world.”

“What’s admirable?” Another woman had joined them, this one in a feather hat that had been a terrible misjudgment.

“When Muggle-borns really try to fit in,” Malloren said. “Bradford here knows a Muggle-born who just opened a shop.”

“I didn’t say I _knew_ him,” Bradford said. “Only that I went in his shop.”

“My mistake,” Malloren said sweetly. 

“That’s good,” the newcomer said. “I don’t have any problem with Muggle-borns as long as they play by the rules. We have ways of doing things, and they need to adjust to our way of thinking.”

“Pay taxes,” Bradford said with a sharp nod. “As long as they pay taxes, get the right permits, everything’s fine. No one wants to just kick people out who are good people, fine people.”

“Exactly,” Malloren said. She smiled at Hermione with teeth so bright they gleamed. Hermione wondered if anyone had ever told her that tooth-whitening wasn’t one of those things where if a little was good, a lot was better. “Don’t you agree?”

It took Hermione a moment to realize she was being asked to smile and nod. “Policies like Madam Umbridge’s went too far, I think,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

Malloren’s smile faltered but Bradford didn’t hesitate. “That woman was a social climber,” he said. “She always seemed cold to me, untrustworthy. Never trusted her. Was glad to see her ousted. Yaxley’s doing, you know.”

“I thought he supported her,” Hermione said.

“Maybe some of her ideas were good,” Bradford said, “but she went about it all wrong. Not that I’m a fan of this modern thing where we can’t say what we think, mind you. People should be free to hold whatever opinions they like but, look, here you are, Muggle-born and standing with Draco Malfoy.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “The Muggle-born, that’s me.” 

“I’m surprised your father doesn’t mind,” Malloren said. “He’s never struck me as a particularly liberal thinker.”

That was clearly directed at Draco, who drained his glass with slow, unhurried ease before setting it on the tray of a caterer who managed to pass just as he needed her. He smiled at the witch in front of him and said, “My father and I are far too close for him to see Hermione with anything but my eyes.” He pulled her more tightly against him, every inch the love-struck swain, and added, “And she is the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Except your mother,” Bradford said with what he probably meant to be gallantry. Malloren had turned a dull red and Hermione tried not to gloat at that.

“My mother is in a league of her own,” Draco said. It might have been agreement. It might have been a warning. 

Music sprung up out of nowhere and Hermione grabbed at the potential reprieve. “A dance, Draco?”

His fingers twitched where they sat against her spine and she wasn’t sure whether it was one of his spasms or whether he was reacting to her use of his name. She hadn’t before now, but she could hardly call him Malfoy and pretend she was smitten, even just a little.

“I’d love a dance,” he said. “If you all will excuse us?” He took the now empty champagne flute from her hand and set it down on another one of those conveniently appearing caterer’s trays and pulled her to a portion of the room that, despite no visual demarcation at all, he somehow knew was the dance floor.

Well, it was his house. His _big_ house. His big house with his horrible guests.

“I hate your party,” Hermione said as he set his hands on her hips. At least he wasn’t expecting her to know how to do any kind of proper dance. The stand and sway she could manage. If he had expected a waltz, she would have embarrassed them both.

“Me too,” he said. He pulled her tightly enough against him she could rest her cheek on his shoulder. “Pathetic basement-dwelling losers here to pretend they matter.”

“Do they?” she asked.

It took him too long to answer. “Some of them have influence,” he said at last. “They tell him what he wants to hear.”

“Him being Yaxley.”

“Him being Lord Corban Yaxley,” Draco agreed wryly. “He likes people who agree with him.”

“Charming,” Hermione said. They danced without talking for the rest of the song. She could hear him breathing, could feel the occasional shake of his hands against her, could see the way people put their heads together and whispered while looking at them. They were a spectacle. The stares crawled along her skin and made her want to hide. She felt so naked she looked down quickly just to reassure herself that, yes, she really had put on party robes. Draco’s arms felt like a shield against these people and the unthinking prejudice they had the audacity to cloak in high regard for their own tolerance. 

Muggle-borns were fine as long as they were polite, as long as they found their place, as long as they got all the proper permits. She wanted to pull her wand and unleash fire on every guest at this party but that would just prove their own point to them. They’d survive, she’d end up in Azkaban – or dead – and they’d be just that much surer Muggle-borns couldn’t quite be trusted. “I was at that party where the Muggle-born the Malfoy boy had fallen for lost her mind, started hexing up the place.” Hermione could just hear that Malloren telling the story. “Just goes to show you have to be careful who you let your children date. They need to be guided to one of their own kind.”

She let Draco turn her in a bit of a circle. He was good at leading. She could let her feet follow where he went without thinking about it.

This would be over soon. A few more hours. She could dance with him, have the dinner, listen to whatever self-congratulatory speech was planned, then escape back to her room. Maybe Molly would have sent her a note. 

Just one dance at a time. She could do this.

When the music stopped she stepped back from Draco and smiled up at him. One side of his own mouth quirked up in response, but before either of them could say anything, Alecto and Amycus Carrow appeared, all in black, simpering and leering.

“Draco,” Alecto said, “So glad to see you up and around so soon.”

“I had the best of care,” Draco said. He tugged at his sleeves then, as if momentarily bothered by a crooked cuff link, squinted at his wrist. “And I am not going to complain about displeasing Lord Yaxley.”

“You got off light,” Amycus said. “I’d have killed you.”

Draco looked up at that, contemptuous sneer curling his face into an expression she’d seen him wear at school. “That’s why you’re a flunky, Amycus, and Yaxley runs things. You have no vision.”

“I have vision,” Amycus said. “It just doesn’t have room for worthless Mudbloods.”

“Worthless?” Hermione asked as sweetly as she could. She had her wand out, the _expelliarmus _ murmured, and Amycus’s wand in her other hand before he could answer. “Is that a challenge? I’m always up for one of those.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading.


	12. Chapter 12

After Hermione asked if that was a challenge, Amycus’ wand in her hand, the man lunged toward her. Maybe he thought to pummel her into submission. Maybe he wanted to wrap his thick fingers around her throat. Whatever his intention was, he never got the chance. Halfway on his path to Hermione, he froze, petrified, and then topped to the floor with a loud crash, carried on by momentum the spell didn’t halt.

Hermione’s assumption that Draco had cast the spell disappeared when Antonin Dolohov appeared behind her and plucked Amycus’ wand out of her grasp. “Miss Granger,” he said with such perfect courtesy a chill settled around her heart. She didn’t trust Death Eaters when they were spewing their hatred but she trusted them even less when they bowed over her hand. Especially not this one. “A pleasure. I do not think we’ve been formally introduced?”

Draco shakily did the honors, and Hermione shivered as Dolohov turned from her to eye the man he’d incapacitated. “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Granger,” he said too silkily. “You are the scholar turned warrior turned… turncoat?”

“Not the term I would use,” Hermione said as calmly as she could. The tremor in her soul didn’t come out in her voice and she was pleased she sounded level and polite and perhaps a tiny bit put out. 

“Oh?” Dolohov had begun to roll Amycus’ wand back and forth between his hands and test the springiness of the wood. She struggled to keep from staring at it. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d snapped it in half. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d turned it on her. The room seemed to have hushed, and someone had snapped off the music as everyone pretended they weren’t listening but were just suddenly out of things to say. “What would you call it?”

“Complicated,” she said. The word seemed very loud.

He laughed. “I’m sure it was. I knew Molly back in the day, and she never liked other women much. Being under her thumb had to grate.” He leaned over conspiratorially and whispered so his words would carry through the whole room, “Did she try to teach you to cook?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. She met his eyes. “It was a bit of a failed attempt, I’m afraid. I’m better at combat.”

“Are you?” he asked. “Let’s find out.” He tossed Amycus’ wand down and, only after it had hit the prone man in the face, released the _Petrificus Totalus_ he’d cast. “Unless Amycus would prefer to not.”

“You think I’m afraid of a Mudblood?” Amycus asked. He sounded derisive. 

“Language,” Dolohov said. “You’re at a party, Carrow, one for adults, not some bash in the alley behind your favorite pub.” He bent down and held a hand out to help Amycus up. Hermione tried to think what his game could possibly be, but nothing made sense. Dolohov could have killed her with a single curse and no one in the room would have stopped him. She still had the mark from where he’d landed a spell on her years ago in the Department of Mysteries. He’d left her shoulder so puckered by the long white scar it looked as if a seamstress had tried to mend her, leaving the fabric of her skin pulled into permanent wrinkles and waves.

“Shall we take this outside?” he asked. “I’d hate to risk harm to any of Madam Malfoy’s lovely home.”

Draco took her arm in his and led her out, only the way his fingers dug into her betraying anything he might be feeling. Much of the assembled crowd trooped out after them. She supposed they were eager to see the duel, though whether they were rooting for her, for Carrow, or just liked a good fight she didn’t know. The back terrace was pronounced an excellent spot for her to demonstrate her prowess, and Amycus took a stand, hunched over his wand like a gargoyle out of a children’s story. He grinned at her with a mouth surely too wide, and eyes too dark, to be real. Alecto laughed a wild cackle and clapped her thick hands but a warning look from Dolohov kept her wand holstered. She was only going to be permitted to cheer.

That was too bad. Hermione would have liked an excuse to go after her. Instead, she pulled her own wand with the economy of movement Molly had liked to teach and pushed the soles of her feet into the ground. Years ago, when her world hadn’t had real magic but only odd things people explained away as coincidence, she’d taken ballet. Her teacher had said you found stability not by rising up on the balls of your feet but by pushing the ground away from you. She’d never forgotten that advice because it worked. She pushed and rocked a little on her feet and then, when Dolohov said “Begin,” she twirled to the left, shot off a nasty slicing curse that she didn’t think would land, added an immediate _Protego_ so she could study Amycus Carrow’s response. 

He had blocked the slicing curse. She’d expected that. A man didn’t make it this many years in combat with people trained by Moody and Molly without learning to dodge. What she’d wanted to see was how he’d done it. She’d probably fought him often enough, both in skirmishes and battles, but when they had the masks on it was hard to know who was who. Did he tend to go left? Right? What mistakes did he make. What patterns were there in his movements? Did he waste time talking? 

Talking he did.

“Stupid girl,” he said with a sadly predictable leer. “Is that all you have?”

He tried a hex that she’d seen hit Seamus. It was a nasty one, so cruel it made it clear there were very few rules to this. She could do what she liked when her time came. She blocked his attempt and tossed off another trivial curse, blocked him, and observed. 

He sidestepped it, moving right and laughing. “That’s for children. You’re not quite the treasure Malfoy claimed.”

“Too bad for him,” Alecto said. She sounded far too pleased by that possibility.

Hermione cast another minor curse at him. Even Molly would have given her an odd look for using something that insignificant but she was starting to think she had this. Amycus side-stepped it by moving to the right again, and began to laugh with delight as he threw another bit of vile destruction at her. She tested him one more time as he taunted her, he moved right again, again not bothering to shield. That was sloppy. Moody would have yelled at him for an hour for that. Never don’t shield in battle. Never.

Constant vigilance, though, didn’t appear to be part of Amycus Carrow’s playbook. He wasn’t even raising his wand to _begin_ to cast a _Protego_. He was just taunting her lack of skill and strength.

“You worthless bint,” he said. “Blood always tells, and yours is - .”

She wondered as she let first a minor wart spell, then a _Sectrumsempra_ to the right, followed by the very same spell Dolohov had used on her all those years ago even more to the right, why he hadn’t realized nothing he threw at her had so much as singed her hair. It was a brief worry that perhaps he was cleverer than he let on, but as he danced out of the way of a faceful of warts right into the path of the spell Snape had labeled ‘for enemies’ and collapsed, that worry disappeared.

He really was just that stupid.

She supposed she’d never get to hear exactly what it was her inferior blood told him because he was screaming and clutching at his chest where the fabric hung in shreds and blood poured out onto the flat stones of the terrace. Alecto had screamed her fury and fallen to his side, trying to staunch the flow with inadequate spells of her own.

Hermione leveled her wand to strike again when Dolohov grabbed her wrist. His smooth, easy gesture caught her by surprise. “That will be enough, Miss Granger,” he said. “I’m sure you don’t mean to kill someone on your own side.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then, as she moved to drop her arm, he released his hold. She sheathed her wand in the pocket so cleverly sewn in these robes and said, “Of course not. My apologies. Habit is all.”

“First Alecto and now you,” Dolohov said. He didn’t offer Amycus a hand this time. “I think I’ll go with young Malfoy’s assessment.”

“And Yaxley’s,” Malfoy said.

“Yes,” said Dolohov. He snapped his fingers, waved over a caterer, and as Hermione stood in stunned disbelief handed a full bottle of something to Draco. “Take your lovely girlfriend for a stroll. I understand moonlight and rose gardens can lead to romance.”

“Do Muggle-borns – ,” someone began to ask, but they were hushed and the guests all slid back through the wide doors into the ballroom. Even the Carrows went back inside, though they skulked more than slid and left bloody footprints in their wake. Alecto must have managed to stop the bleeding. Maybe she kept a blood replenishing potion in her purse. Hermione didn’t care. Let them both die.

The doors were closed behind the last person with a definitive click and Draco and Hermione were left outside, alone, with a full bottle of what a _lumos_ charm revealed to be champagne.

Hermione looked at it somewhat dubiously.

“It’s an excellent vintage,” Malfoy said in what she supposed was reassurance that he wouldn’t expect her to drink bad wine at his house. Fight a duel, sure, but drink cheap swill? Never. He grimaced at the bottle with an expression she couldn’t quite read but that looked oddly displeased and relieved at the same time. “Dolohov felt free to be generous with my family’s cellar it seems.”

She glanced back at the closed doors, then out at the dark gardens. She could see the milling guests through the glass, and a braying laugh snuck out. The better choice was obvious. “We shouldn’t waste it,” she said. “Now that it’s been opened, I mean.”

Malfoy looked at her and in the light from the party she could see him begin to grin. “Better a drink with you than in there,” he said. “Off to the roses again?”

She hooked an arm around him. “Lead me away or lose me forever.”

That earned her a full laugh and he took one swig, handed her the bottle, and began to pick his way down the steps and through the garden as she drank. It was excellent. The bubbles tickled her nose and the champagne almost evaporated on her tongue. If she ever decided to make a list of all the things that were wrong with the Malfoys – something she was sure would take days to do – she wouldn’t include bad taste in wine. She took another swallow, and then another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Much love to salazars for beta reading. This chapter I seem to have attempted to spell Dolohov every which way but right.
> 
> And thank you to you, gentle reader, for your eyes, your time, your comments. They are all a gift.


	13. Chapter 13

“I think I might be drunk,” Hermione said. She’d eased herself down until she was sitting on the neatly trimmed lawn with her back to the stone wall surrounding the roses. Moody would approve. It was an easily defensible spot and she could see the Manor from here, lit up and glowing.

Malfoy sat down next to her, a little closer than she would have liked, but she didn’t think she could object when he passed the bottle of champagne back to her like a perfect gentleman and said nothing as she took a swig far too hefty to be ladylike. The bubbles tickled her nose and she almost sneezed. With immense self-control, she managed to not. She did, however, hand the bottle back to Malfoy so he could help himself to more, which he did. After he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand he propped the bottle between his knees and said, “Anyone who made that bastard bleed should celebrate.”

She looked up at the big, glittering house. “I hate all of them,” she said. “Death Eaters.”

“Me too,” he said. The words were soft enough to be a confession but filled with so much self-loathing she had a hand on his leg before her brain could stop her.

“You aren’t like them,” she said.

“Don’t fool yourself,” he said. 

“You’re not,” she said. She shook her head to emphasize the point and considered, as the world wobbled a bit, that that may have been a bad idea. Champagne, she remembered too late, hit you fast and hard and whatever was between Malfoy’s legs was a league beyond anything she’d had before. “You’re… I mean, you’re an _arsehole_,” she said, enunciating as carefully as she could because she didn’t want him to misunderstand, “but you are not a bad person.”

“Try not to kill me with the praise, Granger,” he said but he might have sounded a bit gratified by her pronouncement. 

“Hermione,” she said. His head almost whipped around to look at her at that and she shrugged. “If we are in love, and all, you’d – “

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I would. It’s just peculiar, is all. Hermione.”

“Was that so bad?” she asked, half-teasing.

He actually stuck his tongue out at her as if he were five and she laughed with sudden delight, giddy on the duel and the wine and the utter, ridiculous happiness she felt leaning up against a cold, stone wall with this boy – this man – who’d always been her enemy. Life was funny. She’d dreaded the party, had a terrible time, but right now she wanted the night to never end. Bless whoever had invented champagne.

“Your turn,” he said. She blinked a few times, trying to figure out what he meant, so he prompted her. “If I’m going to use your name, even in private, you should return the favor.”

“Draco,” she said. She rolled her tongue around the name, then said it again. “Draco.” It wasn’t horrible. She’d already been thinking of him as Draco half the time in her head, sometimes to differentiate him from his parents – the house really had too many Malfoys – and sometimes because when a man shows up at your door after a bout of torture it broke down a few barriers.

As did being a spy for the Order.

“Why are you doing it?” she asked. She didn’t bother to specify what _it_ was. One of the many easy things about _Draco_ was that he followed her easily. She’d already figured that out.

“You saw me last night,” he said. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

She didn’t quite think so. It was reason to not support these people. But working against them? Saving Harry? Helping her funnel out information. She suspected all the inner circle had experienced Yaxley’s idea of discipline and she didn’t expect to see the Carrows turn on him any time soon. Or Dolohov.

Or maybe not, with Dolohov. Everything was spinning and there were plots inside plots. She couldn’t tell who was on whose side. She was fairly sure, though, that none of them, save maybe Draco, were on hers.

“You could just keep your head down,” she said. “You’re rich enough.”

“Falling for the big house already?”

She ignored that. “You could be as influential as you wanted. You could be a power – “

“I _hate them_,” he said. That was as bald and honest as she’d ever heard anyone be. Harry talked sometimes about right and wrong, and carrying on Dumbledore’s legacy. Ron would never leave Harry. Molly and Moody’s paths, all their paths, had been set before she’d ever set foot in the wizarding world. She couldn’t think of anyone else who’d turned away like this, who’d rejected something easy for something hard.

“Draco,” she said. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. _You’re a marvel_, maybe, or _I don’t understand_ but she thought she did. Maybe. A little. Too much fear. Too much pain. Not enough of the carrot and too much of the stick and he didn’t like the stick. 

She settled on, “Thank you. For helping.”

He picked up the bottle and took a long drink. There couldn’t be much left and she held her hand out to get one last swallow from this oh-so-expensive excellent vintage of real champagne. Not bubbling wine, not this. This had come from France. This was authentic. And it tasted like heaven. She wanted more.

“I had no idea you liked that stuff so much,” Draco said watching her drain the rest. “I’ll make sure it’s served at meals.”

“You don’t have to – “

“Let me make some things decent,” he said. “Please. It really isn’t much.” He took the bottle out of her hand and set it against the wall. Some part of her objected to just leaving rubbish out, but there were gardeners, or she could walk out in the morning and fetch it. It probably didn’t matter. Narcissa Malfoy didn’t seem the sort to allow trash to gather around her house.

“If I drink this at dinner I might tell your father he’s a right idiot,” Hermione said. She closed her eyes and imagined the beauty of just blaming the alcohol and letting her mouth tell Lucius Malfoy what she thought of him. That would be glorious. _You did this_, she could say. _You helped make this happen. How do you like it? I hope it burns, you bastard. I hope it burns every night. I hope you can’t sleep for the pain of it all._

“And what would you tell me?” Draco asked. “That I’m just as bad?”

She didn’t answer that. Some confessions were best kept unuttered and unconsidered. Instead she said, “I hated you. At school.”

“I hated you, too,” he said. Safe ground, this. “You were stuck up, a know-it-all.”

“You were a bigot,” she said. “A bully.”

“You weren’t exactly a simpering bit of kindness yourself,” he said. “_At least no one on Gryffindor had to buy his way onto the team,” _he said, and she knew he was quoting her. She cringed to hear her young self parroted back, all self-righteous surety. He’d called her a mudblood right after that. She remembered that too. Children could be so nasty to one another, and all over a game that hadn’t even mattered. She wished she could go back and apologize. Did he?

Weren’t the saddest words in any language supposed to be, ‘too late’?

“No, I wasn’t that nice,” she admitted. She’d been a lot of things at school but nice hadn’t really been one of them. Not nice. Not kind. Certainly not to him. She’d liked being able to make him hurt the same way he did her. And now? What were they now? “Friends?” she asked. 

“You and me?” He sounded incredulous.

She worried for a moment she’d overstepped. She’d never been good at people. Her first vivid memory of Ron was his saying she was a horror, and he’d been right. She was good at books and cleverness, but maybe she’d read this all wrong the way she so often did and all they were was co-conspirators. Co-conspirators was fine. It was great. It was a lot more than she’d hoped for when she’d looked down at the heavy diamond bracelet still on her wrist. 

“Friends would be… I’d like that,” Draco said. He leaned over and rested his head on her shoulder and that fine hair of his brushed against her neck. He’d had a lot of the champagne too, and at least another whole glass before the duel had started. 

“If you want,” she said.

“I do,” he said. He took her hand, ran a thumb over the family heirloom he’d enchanted, then laced his fingers through hers.

“You weren’t what I expected,” she said. “Aren’t.”

“Yeah, well, neither are you,” he said. He fell silent for a long moment and she could hear the sounds of the party. Someone had opened the door again and music hung in the air and the occasional sharp laugh cut through it to jab at her. “You were something tonight.”

She closed her eyes at that and they sat, listening to the sounds and letting the cold seep through their clothes. The world had gotten too wobbly, and just as she wondered how she was going to make it back to her room without stumbling into walls, Draco sat up. “We should go,” he said. “Back behind locked doors before someone decides they want to test themselves against you too.”

She let him pull her up. They avoided the guests thanks to his knowledge of side doors and servants’ passages. She stopped with her hand on the knob of her room and raised the other to rest against his cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “For being decent.”

She wanted to tell him she’d had fun, actual fun. That she’d enjoyed drinking with him. That she was glad they were friends. That ‘just in time’ wasn’t so bad. His mouth twisted into a mocking smile at what she did say, however, so she stopped there. “You have a bad habit of that,” he said. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

“Yes,” she said.

She shut the door behind her, making sure the lock clicked into place, and kicked off her shoes. She had one hand on the zipper of her robes and was already thinking about breakfast and getting another look at stash of Death Eater documents, the ones they didn’t want to move to the Ministry, when she idly turned over a sheet of parchment on her desk just to check. She wasn’t expecting anything.

_Mum said she’d send this off,_ it read.

She sank into the chair, robes still half on, and picked up the paper with shaking hands. Ron had written her. She knew the writing. Molly had to have been the one to do the charm work because he’d never mastered that but, even if it was a note his mother had read, it was still a note. It was still a word from friends.

_We’re still with the D’s. They’ve taken us in because of C and F. I can’t understand a word anyone says because except for G none of them speak English. Won’t even try. Miss you. Hope you’re OK. Hex that wanker M for me when he’s not looking. H says hullo._

She knew she had to burn it. It had been an insane risk to send. It could have blown her cover. If anyone had seen this they’d have known she wasn’t mad for Draco Malfoy. They’d have known she was still in touch with Harry. He’d been so stupid. He’d listed right where they were. Still in France. With the Delacours. Even Amycus Carrow would have been able to decode his pathetic attempt at secrecy. Dolohov wouldn’t have even noticed the attempt. 

She was so grateful to get it her hands were shaking. They hadn’t forgotten her. They all still cared.

She had to burn it.

She read it again, then again and again and again. Finally, when she had the words memorized twice over, she tore the part that said _Miss you_ out very carefully, tucked it away inside a book, and knelt down to set the rest of the missive against the grate in the fireplace. She watched the precious words as the flames took them and didn’t even realize she was crying until it was all gone.

She opened the book again. _Miss you_.

She’d gone drinking with Draco Malfoy. She’d had fun. She’d laughed and called him a friend and enjoyed herself. She’d _enjoyed herself._ That made her feel dirty. She wasn’t here to make friends. She wasn’t here to have a good time or drink good champagne or feel Draco Malfoy’s fine hair brush up against her skin as he told her she’d been something to see. She’d come to get them all out, and now she was sending them information so they could find a way to get Yaxley out of power.

That was all.

She closed the book and got ready for bed in as emotionless a state as she could manage. She hung the pretty robes with the swans up. She set her shoes very neatly in the wardrobe. She brushed her teeth and took a shower and pulled a nightgown on. She lay down and the world spun and she told herself it was from the champagne. Too much champagne. Nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading, and to you for reading at all!


	14. Chapter 14

She wore trousers the next day. She’d had to push aside a number of lovely dresses and the like that Narcissa Malfoy had surely purchased – the idea of Draco shopping for her strained credulity – to find them. Hiding, however, at the back of the wardrobe, was a pair of what could almost be practical, serviceable trousers. She pulled the heavy fabric on, picked out a pair of trainers, and topped the whole thing with an actual Muggle t-shirt advertising a band she couldn’t imagine any of her hosts enjoying. To be truthful, she was a bit flabbergasted the shirt was even in the drawer but the cotton was soft and worn and it clung with the comfort of clothes meant to make the wearer happy rather than look stylish.

When Draco arrived, knocking at her door with a polite rat-a-tat, she was pulling her hair back into a pony tail that exploded with every ounce of the frizzy, bushy fury he’d used to mock. He glanced at her, eyes sweeping over clothes no one would call alluring, and said, “That doesn’t work, you know.”

“What doesn’t work?” she asked, half ready to fight.

“Friendship already over?” was his only response. He didn’t even sound surprised, and she sagged a little, then a little more when he held out a vial of what she recognized as hangover remedy. She didn’t need it too badly. A hot shower and a splash of cold water on her face had gotten rid of most of her headache, but she took it with a nod of thanks anyway. She wouldn’t turn her nose up at the clearest head possible.

“Sorry,” she said. She might as well blame the champagne and the hint of a hangover for her edgy mood. It was easier.

“I’ll live,” he said. “I always have so far.”

He frowned at something behind her, and as she watched, perplexed, he drew his wand. “We keep the grates clean,” he said softly as he vanished the ashes left from the note she’d burned. The ashes he’d seen instantly. The ashes he’d noticed as out of place and wrong and taken pains to hide for her.

She must have flushed with guilt because a weird little half smile tucked itself around the corners of his mouth as he put the wand away. “I did assume the messages went both ways,” he said. “Just be careful.”

“Draco,” she began. “Ron –.”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m not a cad,” he said. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves with more details than that.”

“Friends,” she said again, and his face relaxed.

“Yes,” he said. She thought she might have seen a tiny sag to his own shoulders, but he didn’t say more. He held the door and she followed him with trainers and messy hair to the same

terrace where she’d tried to kill a man the night before.

The blood had already been cleaned off the stones, and other than a faint trace of spilled alcohol that lingered in the air the whole party had been erased. The ballroom sat silent. The curtains were drawn. Breakfast included plates of toast and fresh berries but didn’t come with tablets or vials intended to treat over-indulgence. She and Draco just sat down at a small, waiting table and tucked into the meal. 

You could get used to having all your daily needs so effortlessly handled.

“More exploring today?” she asked. More espionage she meant. 

“I’m up for it if you are,” he said and, with toast eaten, tea drunk, and mouths wiped they explored their way back to Lollia’s portrait, back through the narrow halls where the working poor had spent their lives waiting on generations of Malfoys and their guests, and back into the office turned morgue. The regime’s documents sat in boxes, waiting for them as surely as the breakfast had.

They hadn’t had much time before the tell-tale sound of the key in the latch had her shoving papers down into her waistband and Draco yanking her away, behind the tapestry with the orange cat and her boots and into the quasi-safety of the corridors. He seemed more tense than usual and too many years of reading battlefield glances sent and received kept her quiet as he dragged them both out a nearly hidden side door, into a small herb garden, and pushed her up against a brick wall.

The tiny door disappeared into the wall behind ivy, an illusion so perfect that even though she had walked through it she couldn’t have found her way in again to save her life.

“Trust me,” he muttered into her hair before he began fumbling with his belt. He bit at her neck with a sloppy abandon that seemed out of character and with a quick, cold assessment of his sudden amorous attack she began to bite at her lips to make them look kissed as she pulled his shirt free and ran her hands up his back along skin with too many scars. He had a map of war along his spine and across his shoulder blades. She’d felt one like it on Ron’s skin, seen one like it on her own.

They were all topographies now.

“Miss Granger.”

The voice was cool and amused and indubitably belonged to Corban Yaxley. 

She raised her eyes from Draco’s face to the man standing at the entrance to the small, walled garden. He smiled back at her and tipped his head. They might have been meeting at a cocktail party. They might have been colleagues. His manners ignored that she looked like a rumpled slattern pressed up against the wall, her clothes askew, her mouth swollen.

She stepped away from Draco and made a show of self-consciously tucking her hair back and straightening her clothes. “Mr. Yaxley,” she said. Even here, even as the supposed defector, she wasn’t going to call this man _Lord_. He could choke on that if he wanted.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I understand I missed a bit of a show last night.”

Hermione could feel her stomach lurch with immediate fear. She’d done too much, gone too far. Before she could say that Dolohov had nearly ordered her to do it, that it had been a proper duel, that she hadn’t intended anything, Yaxley went on, “And I was sorry to hear that. Dear Severus’ spells were tricky things, hard to master. They require more passion than the average curse.”

He let his eyes run up her body, from the flat shoes to the way the soft shirt clung to her, and she suddenly wished she’d worn something more formal. A stiff set of robes, a laced corset, anything would have seemed less revealing than these Muggle clothes. He saw the squirm she tried to hide and his lips twitched.

She knew he’d wanted her to see that.

“I would like to see a demonstration.” He stepped slightly to the side and she saw the boy who’d been almost cowering behind him. A wizard, surely, because he had a wand at his waist. He also had a smattering of pimples across a shiny forehead and his feet looked too big for his body. He couldn’t be more than thirteen. 

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said.

Yaxley pushed the boy toward her. “Young Lestrange here – one of Rodolphus’ by-blows – will do. Show me your _sectrumsempra_.”

“But,” she began. He couldn’t possibly mean he wanted to her to curse this child right here on this sunlit morning.

“Do it,” Draco said behind her. He sounded implacable. He sounded defeated. He even gave her a tiny nudge toward the boy and her feet moved a few steps. 

She raised her wand.

Yaxley was right. _Sectrumsempra_ took a lot of concentration to cast. You had to be angry, or afraid, or filled with hatred. She didn’t know what had fueled the creation of this one, but it was one of the angriest curses she knew, and she knew a lot. Her hand shook as she tried to summon the kind of rage she’d need to make it work. She thought about Yaxley, standing there, a look of cool speculation on his face, waiting to see if she could do it. To see if she _would_ do it. She tried to not even see the shaking boy. He was just a target, not a person.

She looked away when he fell.

He didn’t scream.

She wondered, briefly, what his life had been like that he could be hit with something like that and not cry out, then decided she didn’t want to know. She met Yaxley’s eyes and quirked her brows up. “You thought Dolohov was exaggerating?” she asked. They needed to get a Healer, or a blood potion, or something. Anything. Surely the monster smiling at her didn’t mean to make this boy die at her feet.

“I did think Amycus might have been,” Yaxley said. “He has a tendency to magnify his prowess, and with it the skill required to overcome it. I am pleased to see in this instance he reported correctly.” 

He snapped his fingers and one of his endless flunkies appeared. “Take him to St. Mungo’s,” Yaxley said, pointing at the boy. Then, with another nod and a curt, “Miss Granger, Young Malfoy,” he strode off. The underling scooped up the bleeding boy – he’d slipped into unconsciousness by now, and apparated away. Hermione took a step backward, away from the tell-tale spot of soaked dirt and into Draco Malfoy’s waiting arms. Now that everything was over, she began to shake. 

What had she just done?

Draco didn’t talk. He didn’t reassure her, didn’t tell her it was okay or that the boy would be fine. He just held her tightly as she trembled. When she fought her way free of him and collapsed to her knees, he held her hair as she threw up the breakfast she’d had. She heaved again and again until bile was burning her mouth and she could barely hold herself upright. 

“It’s what he does,” Draco said at last. He’d settled next to her, his legs folded up, and he pulled her onto his lap. He drew a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped her mouth, and a glass appeared in his hand and he helped her rinse away the taste and the burning. She stared down into the water and didn’t say anything as he pet and pet her hair and she held the glass. There was a ripple on the surface of the water.

She’d just cursed an innocent boy.

She’d stood there with a cocky smile on her face, her head tilted to the side, and smiled at Yaxley as a boy whose name she didn’t know had lay bleeding at her feet.

“He wants you to be dirty,” Draco said. It had been a minute since she’d cursed that boy. It had been an hour. It had been a thousand years and birds were singing in the trees and life was going on. The roses were waiting to be told they were pretty, and Ron was complaining no one would speak English to him, and she’d cursed a boy and now he sat huddled between sage and rosemary and the sun was going to set tonight and then rise tomorrow because the universe didn’t care she’d cursed an innocent child.

“It’s what he does,” Draco said as his hand moved over and over on her hair. “_He_ did it too. I read up on it. It’s… you make people cross over their lines, do the things they thought they’d never do, and that’s how you tie them to you.”

Hermione nodded. Making it academic helped put a little distance between the reality of it and the feelings that threatened to choke her until she died.

“People, once they’ve done awful things,” Draco said, “they don’t quit. They can’t.”

“Fuck him,” Hermione said in a whisper. “I’ve killed before.”

Draco just shrugged. She could feel his shoulders move up and down and she knew, the same way he did, that it was different. It was one thing to curse Amycus Carrow, one thing to fight in a battle. It was another to just hurt a boy standing there, brought up before her to tame her and test her and probably punish an errant Death Eater at the same time. _I can have the mudblood hurt what you care about most_, he might as well have said to Rodolphus Lestrange. 

“Who is he?” she asked. The boy she meant. Draco followed the jump of her logic and answered.

“Half-blood,” Draco said. “Rodolphus says the kid is his, but the math doesn’t work, so who knows. He took him in after the Battle of Hogwarts, said he was the father. No one asks.”

“What’s his _name_?” Hermione pressed.

“Oh.” Draco let out a little, nervous laugh. “Archie. Archibald.”

She would have expected something less ordinary from one of the Lestranges. She supposed the mother had named him. Probably best not to ask what had happened to her, or how she’d ended up with a half-blood baby. Romantic walks through the rose gardens seemed an unlikely backstory. “Does he like him?” she asked. 

“Rodolphus?” Draco asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Yeah. I think so.”

“We should go visit him at St. Mungo’s,” she said. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to expiate her sins, she supposed, but since that wasn’t possible she’d settle for bringing Archie chocolate frogs and a magazine. 

Draco helped her to her feet and as she moved she could feel the parchment she’d stolen earlier jab into her skin. “I guess,” she began. She was going to say she guessed she should go copy this out. She should send him on his way. Watching her transcribe what was probably worthless was a waste of his day.

“We should stay out of sight for a bit,” he said as if finishing her thought. “Do you mind if I eat lunch in your room?”

She grabbed at his hand and held on as if he were a life raft. She didn’t mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to salazars for her sharp eye beta reading, and to all of you for your endless support of my storytelling.


	15. Chapter 15

“I don’t even understand what these are.” Hermione flung her quill down in frustration and glared at Draco. He’d poured himself into a chair and watched her as she copied the day’s purloined memorandum. He was an easy target, and a safe one. “It’s just a list of names. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He _accioed _the parchment to himself wandlessly and skimmed it. “Names and amounts,” he said. “Bribes would be my guess.”

“Your guess?” she said. He sounded awfully certain for it to be a guess.

He held the paper out to her, making her half rise from her seat and lean over to snatch it back. She’d never mastered wandless work. “It’s how the world works,” he said as she flung herself back and looked at the names, each tagged with a number, this time preparing herself to be furious. 

Not knowing who these people were kept her anger shapeless. Draco helped by moving to lean over her. He set one finger at the first name. “Owns CleanSweep Brooms,” he said. He moved his finger down the list. “Major stakeholder in _The Daily Prophet_. People are talking about her being named Supreme Mugwump. Landlord, owns half of Hogsmeade. Publisher, gets all the royalties for the Gilderoy Lockhart books now that he’s cuckoo. Rumors are this one is the investor behind Celestina Warbeck. This one - .”

“Stop,” Hermione said. She could tell her voice was very small. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish it were easier.”

“It’s everything,” she said. “He has everything.” Somehow Voldemort had seemed easier. He’d been a terror and a nightmare. He’d been something you could kill. How did you kill this?

“Not you,” Draco said. “He doesn’t have you.”

“Are you so sure?” she asked. She closed her eyes and let her shoulder stoop over the copied letters damning so many of the elite. She’d never really thought about wizarding economics but of course someone made the brooms she hated to fly and someone published the books she loved to read, and somewhere, someone made money from those things. 

The Malfoys probably made a lot of money from those things. Draco certainly recognized the names and she’d guess that was from hearing them around the table or meeting them at parties. She’s doubted he’d sat down to memorize them all. A share of stock here, part ownership of a company there, and before you knew it you had white peacocks shitting on your lawn and Death Eaters over for tea. No wonder Narcissa had to lay down with a headache whenever Yaxley came over. He was a walking, talking reminder of her own complicity.

And Yaxley was subverting as many of them as possible. This one would make a profit from his regime. That one would be happy to hire people convinced of crimes under Yaxley’s ever-tightening rule books. And, well, newspapers always sold when there were scandals. He’d line their pockets and they’d look the other way when it was inconvenient for him to be caught. 

“Am I sure that he doesn’t have you?” Draco asked. He set a hand on her shoulder so tentatively it seemed he expected her to slap him away. When she didn’t, he added, “I’m sure of that.”

“If he didn’t have me, why did I do that?” she asked. Since they’d gotten back to her room they had, by mutual, silent consent, not talked about the way she’d cursed Archibald with his oily forehead and too-big feet. 

“Because you aren’t a fool,” Draco said. 

“If I hadn’t?” she asked. 

“Done it?” Draco laughed a little and crossed away from her. Distance could make hard truths easier sometimes. She’d done that with Ron. Whenever she’d really wanted to tell him something hard she’d moved physically away. It was funny to see Draco do the same thing. “Maybe he’d have written you off, maybe he’d have asked me to encourage you.”

“Encourage?”

“_Crucio_,” he said. “It’s very encouraging.”

She must have made a choked whimpering sound. Certainly someone had made one and she didn’t think it had been Draco. He turned away from her and looked out the window. Lush green lawns rolled away from the house and he whispered his words to them as if they could absorb the horror. “I’ve done it many times,” he said. “It turns out I have a knack. _Imperius_ too. I’m good at that one. The Dark Lord… the other one… he liked the way I looked sick when I did them. He liked seeing people ruin themselves. Yaxley is more… it’s policy for him, not entertainment. I can’t decide if that’s worse.”

“You’d have tortured me,” she said. It wasn’t a question and she didn’t want to hear the answer. He said it anyway.

“Yes.”

She made that horrible sound again then asked, “What else. Tell me everything.”

“That I’ve done?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “_Crucio_, mostly. I don’t think I’ve ever killed anyone, but I could be wrong. I fought your lot a few times. Might have. I don’t know. “

“I’ve never cast _crucio_,” Hermione said. She’d killed people, she knew that. She’d cut and maimed and burned and fought and she knew people couldn’t have lived after some of the curses she’d cast but she’d always been fighting to win, not to hurt.

And, of course, the boy.

“I’ve never raped anyone,” Draco said with far too much self-control. There were sentences one shouldn’t have to say, she thought, and that was one. “The Dark Lord didn’t… I don’t think he understood people in a way where he could fathom that. And Yaxley isn’t - .”

“That’s good,” she said. Some things she didn’t want to hear.

“I’m surviving,” he said. “So are you. We do what we have to.”

She didn’t think that was right. She wanted to say that they fought back, that _he_ had fought back, that he didn’t have to do everything Yaxley said. It didn’t seem quite right to say anything quite that self-righteous when she was the one with the most recent blood stains. “If you have to do it,” she said, “bring me soup after.”

“_Crucio?” _he asked then, at her nod, said, “I’ll do that.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say after that. She finished copying out the list she’d stolen, said she thought these were probably people Yaxley was bribing, then hesitated. Was there anything personal to say? Anything they’d understand? She settled on, _I’m holding on. Hug everyone for me and tell P I can’t wait to see his next tattoo. Don’t know how long it’ll be, but this isn’t forever. Miss you. _

She wanted to tell Ron she loved him. She wanted to tell him what she’d done and let him tell her it was okay, that he understood. She didn’t.

A protean charm, an _incendio_, and then she stared at the tiny pile of ash, too exhausted to go on. She should sweep it up. She should vanish it.

“Let me.” Draco said, then whispered a charm and flicked his wand in a quick zig and a zag. She watched, first with indifference and then with wonder, as the ashes spun themselves up into a circle and transfigured into a tiny, glass bird. Sooty feathers seemed to almost ruffle and the tiny head was frozen in a little tilt to the side as if asking whether she had any crumbs that could be passed over. It was beautiful.

“How?” she asked as she reached one finger out to touch the little figurine.

He made a self-conscious shrug. “I had to use my time to work on something and that’s better than _crucio_.”

“Draco,” she said impatiently. This was beautiful work. It wasn’t just a transfiguration. The bird was art. It looked so alive she kept expecting it to take off and fly away, or hop toward her. It looked real. The detailing was so exquisite she could see every hair of the feathers. Only magic could have made this. 

When he smiled for real one half of his mouth went higher than the other. “I always liked doing stuff,” he said. “Before it all happened. I liked making new things.”

“Potter Stinks,” she said. He’d made those annoying badges that flashed. At the time, she’d just wanted to throttle him for the petty cruelty of it, but, looking back, she had to admit it had been clever work, as clever as anything Fred and George had done. 

Her brain stammered a bit over Fred’s name. Some deaths were harder to accept than others. 

“Potter Stinks,” Draco agreed. “Pansy and Greg loved those. Theo told me I was an arse.”

She picked up the bird and turned it back and forth in her hands. The detail on the wings was remarkable, and the eyes glittered with a hint of green. “I like this better,” she said. 

“Then it’s yours,” he said. Before she could thank him, he waved his hand and made a Draco Malfoy sneer at her. She recognized it. It didn’t reach his eyes. They still looked vulnerable and scared and bleak. Had his mask always been that imperfect or was she learning to see him? “I have lots of glass birds, trust me.”

“All like this?”  
  
The sneer faded and a bit of a rueful smile took its place. “Not quite,” he said. “The first few were pretty dreadful.”

She could believe it. No one made something like this their first try. She wasn’t even sure how you’d go about turning ash to glass. She set it back down on the desk, careful not to break off its tiny feet. “Well, thank you,” she said. “I’ll treasure it.”

“We could get out,” he offered. For a brief, wild moment she thought he meant out altogether. They could leave. They could join the rest of the resistance. The utter selfishness of that option grabbed at her heart and tugged. Then he went on. “I mean, you aren’t – we aren’t – prisoners here. We could go get ice cream in Diagon Alley.”

“A date?” she asked, half-teasing.

“There are bookstores,” he said.

“And Saint Mungo’s,” she said.

He looked down. “Yes,” he said. “Though I doubt he’ll be happy to see us.”

“We’ll bring chocolate,” Hermione said. If Harry’s endless visits to the Infirmary at Hogwarts had taught her anything, it was that teenage boys liked chocolate frogs far more than you’d think. They might struggle to look sophisticated in front of girls turned suddenly mysterious, but give them a Quidditch magazine and a frog and they reverted to children.

Though Harry, of course, had never really been a child.

“That might do it,” Draco said. He pulled a deck of cards out of a pocket and waved them in the air. “In the meantime, can I interest you in a few hands of Exploding Snap?”

She thought he was kidding. He wasn’t. She was going to say no, she’d never really liked that silly game, but he had that crooked smile on, and she gave in with a roll of her eyes. An hour later they were both sprawled on the rug of her room, laughing as he won hand after hand. “You are terrible at this,” he said as he hooted in yet another triumph.

“I hate games,” she said. She threw her cards at him and he laughed even more loudly. “I always lose.”

“Chess?” he asked. “I’d think you’d be excellent at Wizard’s Chess.”

That made her smile fade. “No,” she said. “Ron beats me every time. He always has.”

Draco’s own smile faltered for a moment, and when it bloomed again it was even and showcased his perfect teeth. “Well, I suppose he has to be good at something. You like him so I suppose there’s more going on than meets the eye. Try again? I’ll go easy on you.”

“Sure,” she said, and let him deal her another hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading and to everyone reading for your endless support. It means the world.


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione had been in Diagon Alley since the war, of course. At first it had been fine, then less fine, and then she and the rest of the Order had been on the run, waging guerrilla warfare against an increasingly entrenched government and it hadn’t been fine at all. Every trip to public places had involved Polyjuice and fear. It felt wrong to just apparate in, to hold Draco Malfoy’s hand, and to casually saunter down the street as if she belonged. She didn’t need to worry about anyone seeing her and reporting her to Aurors. She didn’t need to worry about a sudden stunner in the back. She needed to worry about Death Eaters playing political chess with her as a pawn, but she could go out for ice cream.

Witches and wizards bustled past her in pointed hats, carrying bird cages, arguing about Quidditch scores. The Holyhead Harpies were doing well this year, or had been until one of their Beaters had been arrested for treason and subsequently disappeared. “I don’t care what her beliefs are,” a wizard said as he clomped by. “She was a damn fine Quidditch player and now the season’s ruined.”

“Serves her right,” his companion said. “Sports stars shouldn’t get mixed up with politics. They’re there to play the game, not bore all of us with their opinions.”

The first wizard grunted what might have been agreement or might have been a polite way to change the subject, and then they were out of sight.

Hermione tightened her grip on Draco’s hand. Sometimes she wanted to just leave these people to their fate. Let them live under a fascist bastard who thought torture was a good policy choice and who made popular sports figures disappear after trumped up charges. 

“Do you want books or dessert first?” Draco asked. She knew he’d heard the same conversation she had. She appreciated he didn’t want to talk about it. She appreciated even more than he cut off her spiraling thoughts.

“Books,” she said.

They stopped outside a window filled with volumes. Pages waved at her, and one book, chained down, hissed a warning from its spine. Front and center sat the current best-seller. _The War on Aurors _by what the cover claimed was the fresh new voice of Pansy Parkinson. She’d be by later in the week to autograph books a small sign read. The bookstore recommended coming by early to get in line because they anticipated a crowd. One of the books in the pile had fallen over and Hermione could see the photograph of Pansy that graced the back. She’d grown into her nose. The girl in the picture smiled from beneath a mane of perfectly styled hair while wearing designed robes. She looked infuriatingly poised. 

“Pansy’s done well,” Draco said. His voice was carefully neutral. 

“You still friends?” Hermione asked. She was already anticipating the argument they would have. She would tear into him. She would let him know all the things Aurors were doing under Yaxley’s regime. They weren’t the good guys anymore, if they ever had been. Maybe walled away in the manicured privilege of Malfoy Manor he didn’t realize that but she could tell him a thing or two. Before she could get started, he shook his head.

“Pansy felt the Death Eater connection didn’t play well for her literary aspirations,” he said. “Bad optics.”

That made her even angrier. Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but he was hardly an enthusiastic Death Eater. How dare ugly, stupid Pansy Parkinson turn on him just so she could sell any book, much less the disgusting one sitting in this window. Hermione almost wanted to buy the book just so she could find every grammatical error. She wanted to track down every logical flaw, every bit of sophistry. She also didn’t want to give that witch a knut. “On second thought, I have plenty of books back at… there are a lot of things I haven’t read yet,” she said. She didn’t want to call the Manor ‘home’ and wasn’t sure what else to call it, especially where someone might overhear. “I don’t feel like buying today.”

“Ice cream it is,” Draco said. 

Ten minutes later they sat on a stone wall outside Fortescue’s, licking at lavender and butterbeer cones and watching people go by. A woman led two small witches by the hand, dragging them past the temptations of ice cream while they expressed vehement and creative displeasure with that decision. A man scurried past, half bent over. He looked at Draco and Hermione with an angry, furtive glare and made a quick V toward the couple before disappearing around a corner. Hermione tried to ignore that. She wasn’t really one of the bad guys. She wasn’t. She should be glad people were willing to do even that almost aborted gesture. It meant not everyone was resigned.

She looked back into the crowd, then into the shop windows. This store sold brooms. That one had what they claimed was a cure for thinning hair. What had once been Weasleys’ Wizards Wheezes was still closed up. Someone had painted a white patch over the boards covering the windows. She could see the fiery orange paint of the phoenix graffiti bleeding through. 

No, everyone wasn’t resigned.

She licked her ice cream again with more satisfaction than before.

A head of ginger hair bobbed through a door and appeared behind one of the plate glass windows. The shade was so familiar, so _Weasley_, that she almost dropped her cone, then told herself she just had Weasley on the brain. “Whoa,” Draco said. He tipped her hand back so the ice cream was upright. “Careful.”

It couldn’t be Ron. The owner of the hair had his back turned to her, and a knit cap covering most of it, but she’d seen that hair, or hair like it, almost every day of her life since she’d been eleven. She’d slept next to hair that shade, she’d coughed coarser hair almost that color out of her throat more than once. She stared at the man as if she could will him to turn around. The gold lettering on the shop window obscured so much of him she was surprised she’d even seen the hair. _Antiques and Broken Cauldrons_ the sign read, an example of what had to be too much honesty in marketing. The man moved behind the large C and, between the lettering and a stack of boxes in the dark shop, he was almost gone.

He was too slender to be Ron. Too wiry. 

“Could you hold this?” she asked Draco and passed her cone over without looking to see if he’d take it. When she pushed open the door of the shop, the ginger turned around, his tattooed hand sliding down into his pocket, and she held up her own hands in a quick ‘unarmed’ gesture that wouldn’t have fooled anyone who knew her.

It didn’t fool the man in front of her, but when he saw who she was Percy Weasley broke into a quickly smothered smile. He turned back to flipping through the old magazines he’d been looking at, and she moved to stand next to him. “You aren’t in France,” she said under her breath as she pretended to be reading the table of contents of _Cauldrons and Collectibles. _

“Came back,” he said. “You look well.”

Was there criticism under that? Had his eyes caught on the broad diamond bracelet she still wore. She bristled at the possibility she was somehow to blame for not being sufficiently downtrodden. Was her shackle too valuable? “Well, they aren’t starving me or locking me in a dungeon,” she said. “It’s a romance, remember?”

“He really in love?” Percy asked.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, back through the window. Draco was holding her cone out to the side and letting it drip onto the cobblestones as he ate his own. He was making a point of not looking in her direction. The layers of deception closed around her as she looked back at the magazine. _Anyone can be captured_, they’d been taught. _Keep information on a need-to-know basis_. “I think so,” she said. “He acts like it. He’s mostly been so lonely he’d probably have fallen in love with a Muggle if she’d smiled at him the right way.”

Percy snorted. “A Malfoy? Doubt that.”

“Well, maybe that’s stretching it,” she admitted. “Why’re you back?”

“Can’t do anything in France,” he said. He stretched a hand out to take another magazine and her eyes caught on the mongoose eating a snake. The snake writhed and writhed in the predatory jaws but couldn’t escape. Percy saw her stare and tugged his sleeve down. It hadn’t been prudent to get that one so close to his hand but she knew he liked to look at it. It was a reminder. A second, identical mongoose, translucent as a ghost, crouched further up his arm. 

Fred’s death had changed them all.

“Can’t kill the bastards, can’t set traps,” Percy said. “Got away so I could. Ron likes France and the Delacours well enough but it wasn’t home. I needed to move. How about you? Why aren’t you there?”

She thought of Draco Malfoy and the _crucios_ he’d endure if she left. She thought of how he’d trusted her to come out like this, into public where she could disappear without a trace. She thought of his brittle, unpleasant mother who’d directed her right to the incriminating documents. “If they think I’m a traitor, I might as well use that,” she said. “I can go to their parties, listen to their gossip, look through their things.” She shrugged. “And if it gets bad, well, I have my wand. I’m the girlfriend as far as that lot is concerned. I can get out if I need to.”

“Spies are good,” Percy said. He clenched his hands in a fist then released them with an effort she knew had to be conscious. “I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

She looked down and nodded. “You okay?” she asked. It was a ridiculous question but she had to ask.

“So far,” he said. “Need-to-know, right?”

She risked a touch to his shoulder. “Don’t get caught,” she said.

“I never have,” he said. He hesitated, then said, “You can drop a message in the old spot in Little Whinging if you need to reach me.”

“I will,” she said. “If I do.”

When she got back to Draco he didn’t ask and she sat down next to him and took what was left of her cone. A puddle of melted goo marked how long she’d been away, and she licked at what was left, her pleasure in the taste gone. 

“Off to get some candy?” Draco asked. “Then go to hospital?”

“Sounds good,” she said then wondered if that counted as a lie. They’d said they wouldn’t lie to one another, and buying presents for the sickroom, especially a sickroom that was her fault, didn’t sound good at all. It sounded terrible. 

_We can do hard things_. It had been one of Molly’s mantras. She said it now. “We can do hard things.”

Draco handed her a napkin so she could wipe her hands. “We can,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do know that mongooses are not weasels, but they are weasel-like. Many thanks to dulce de leche go for her concept of the heavily tattooed Percy, debuted in Aca-demic Arrangements. My take on this Weasley is much angrier than hers, but aesthetically similar and I am in her debt for the idea. 


	17. Chapter 17

Draco and Hermione reached the old Purge & Dowse department store laden with a bag of enough chocolate frogs for three boys and enough Quidditch magazines for four. The window dummy in her outdated fashion stared at them, unblinking, until Draco said, “Hullo. Popping by for a quick visit.”

“Then come in,” she said.

A few steps later and they’d passed through the glass. It took Hermione a few moments to reorient herself. The lobby held patients, visitors, and a gaggle of Medi-witches on break smoking pipes and ignoring everyone. A boy who’d puffed up like a balloon bobbed near the ceiling. His mother had clipped a leash to the belt loop of his pants and was waiting patiently for their turn. Another couple had somehow glued themselves together using a peculiar plant that wiggled and gave off belches of foul-smelling steam but showed no signs of releasing them.

“You might as well head up to the third floor,” the receptionist said after an especially large steam burst. She had to wave her copy of _Witch Weekly_ at them to get their attention, but once she did she added, “There’s a small waiting area up there as well.”

The couple mumbled their thanks and headed towards the lift looking like unathletic children forced to do a three-legged race. Hermione hoped they made it up without hurting themselves even more.

“We’re here to visit Archibald Lestrange,” Draco said.

The receptionist glowered at them both, her hands reopening her magazine, but Draco smiled his perfectly straight smile at her and shifted a little so the hint of his greying Dark Mark peeked out from the edge of his shirt cuff. Her glower became a strained welcome. “What’s he here for?” she asked.

“He was cursed,” Hermione said blandly.

“Spell damage?” she asked. Before Hermione could answer, she said, “That’s fourth floor.”

“Thank you for your time,” Draco said with impeccable, cool courtesy as he set one hand on Hermione’s arm and steered her toward the lift. By the time he pressed the button to go up, the receptionist had her head down over whatever scintillating article _Witch Weekly_ had to offer. 

Probably a glowing puff piece on Pansy Parkinson, Hermione thought bitterly to herself as the doors closed and the lift began moving upwards. Let’s find out how the chirpy little fascist does her hair and where she buys her robes while she tells us, in oh-so-serious and hushed tones, that Auror lives matter and those Phoenix people are nothing but terrorists and we all know what to do with that sort. They’re the new bad ones.

She’d heard it all before, so many times. She’d sat down with people who seemed reasonable and pleasant, people who bragged about their kids marks at Hogwarts and skill at Quidditch until you asked what they thought of Muggle-borns. She’d heard it at the party at Draco’s house. _They should be grateful for what they have _turned pretty quickly into _It’s their own fault when they get hurt. They should be respectful with Aurors. I teach my children to be polite, why don’t they? The Aurors need that power. You need law and order. Look at what happened with_… and then they would pause, afraid to say the name of the man she’d helped bring down. 

Draco poked her as the lift passed through the first floor and began to climb to the second. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I just hate this,” she said. 

He looked down at his feet and seemed to try to collect his thoughts. Before he said anything, the bell dinged and the doors slid open to the ward where victims of spell damage were treated. A little exploration down the sterile corridor revealed every patient room had a clipboard hanging on the door with names and what Hermione thought was much too much personal information. They picked up one clipboard after another and the fifth one read, “Archibald Lestrange.”

Draco knocked on the door and, without waiting for a response, pushed it open. A lanky-haired, sullen boy sat in the lone bed, his arms crossed. When he saw who it was, he stiffened. “Come to finish me off?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon,” Draco said. It was far more of a slap back into place than a question and Hermione watched the boy blanche and slouch under the reprimand.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Hermione pulled up one of the chairs and sat down next to his bed. “I didn’t want to,” she said.

“I know,” he said. The horrible thing was that she knew he did. She could see in his eyes the knowledge that people had to do terrible things and that it had just been his turn to be on the receiving end of abuse. “You didn’t hit anywhere too bad at least.”

She could see a bandage on his shoulder where the hospital gown had fallen down and she nodded. She’d missed any major arteries, hadn’t severed his throat, hadn’t hit him in the gut. It could have been a lot worse. It had been luck, but sometimes she’d settle for fortune’s favor.

“If you hadn’t done it, that one would have made you,” he said. “You might have hit my face.”

“We brought you some things,” she said, and handed over the bag of goodies. 

Archibald Lestrange opened the present and a look of delight turned him from an angry, miserable adolescent back into a boy. She could see the child he’d been and perhaps a hint of the man he’d become. “You like chocolate, then?” she asked.

He was already tearing into the chocolate frog when he answered, “There are people who don’t?” 

She smiled at him the same way people had smiled at her when she’d been in the infirmary with horrible curse wounds and felt old and matronly and hideously mature. He pulled out the card and looked at it.

It was Harry.

Hermione hadn’t realized they hadn’t pulled Harry from the packs. She was sure it didn’t read, ‘Member of currently active Order of the Phoenix, wanted by Aurors for questioning, please report all sightings.’ They probably stuck to, ‘Harry Potter struck down Dark Wizard Tom Riddle (aka the Dark Lord, aka He Who Must Not Be Named, aka Lord Voldemort) in a duel at the Battle of Hogwarts.’

Hermione might have expected a child raised by Rodolphus Lestrange to sneer at the very old photograph of Harry Potter, looking impossibly young as his scar peeked out from behind his hair. He didn’t. He waved the card around with glee then said, “Is it true you knew him?”

Hermione shared a look with Draco. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I knew Harry pretty well before I… before Draco and I -.”

Archibald cut her off. “My dad says he is one of the greatest wizards to ever live.”

“_Your_ dad?” Hermione asked, sure she had to be missing something.

“Yeah,” Archibald said. He’d turned the card over and was greedily reading the tiny blurb. “He says he was marked by greatness as an equal but he had more.”

“Love,” Hermione said softly. Love had been the thing Harry had that Voldemort had not. 

Well, love and sanity.

Archibald didn’t respond to that, which was probably just as well. “How long do you think you’ll be here?” Hermione asked, sure she ought to make some sort of conversation. You couldn’t just show up, apologize for cursing someone, drop a bag of treats on them, and then go, right?

“Just until tomorrow,” he said. “They make me drink that blood replenishing stuff, which is so nasty, but the cut got a weird infection they had to spell away so they wanted to make sure it didn’t come back.” He shrugged a little, then flinched when that moved the injured, cursed, infected shoulder. He clearly didn’t care how long he stayed here, and was pretty unfazed by the injury.

“Harry Potter hit me with that one once,” Draco said.

Archibald looked excited at that. “Really?” he asked.

“Mmm hmm,” Draco said. “I’d tried to _crucio _him in the toilet.”

“You couldn’t hit him though, right?” Archibald asked.

Draco shook his head, confirming Harry Potter, boyhood rival, had been untouchable. Hermione could see Archibald’s hero worship grow. “Other than with my fists, no,” Draco said rather dryly. “He dodged trouble.”

“We should go,” Hermione said. She wasn’t sure how much of their boyhood rivalry remained. Harry had sent her off easily enough so he couldn’t hate Draco the way he had when they were as young as this boy. Either that or he’d trusted her to hold her own. Or, as Draco had said that first night, she’d been the most disposable. Harry certainly wouldn’t have sent Ginny out.

She shoved those thoughts aside and stood up. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks for the chocolate,” Archibald said. He looked down at the card he still held. “I wish this were signed.”

She could tell that was a hint but it wasn’t the sort of thing she could deliver on. “Harry and I aren’t in touch anymore,” she said. “Not since,” she gestured at Draco.

Archibald shrugged with adolescent nonchalance and she thought to herself she had to find a way to get him a signed card when this was all over. How she’d convince Harry to send something off to a Lestrange she didn’t know, but he, of all people, would appreciate her wish to separate a child from the sins of his parents.

With the door closed behind them she sighed and smiled at Draco. One task, done. The guilt for one crime assuaged. She hoped they would all be this easy to rectify. He took her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and squeezed.

As much as she hated what had led him to knowing what she felt, it was good to be understood. 

“Hermione Granger.”

The drawling voice interrupted their walk away, and Hermione turned to see a dark man bearing down on them. His hair hung down over his ears in a way that suggested he needed a haircut more than that he preferred longer hair, and he was licking his lips.

“I have not seen you in many years,” he went on.

“Rodolphus Lestrange,” Hermione said. She was sure Draco had to be cringing internally from the way she had tightened her grip on his hand but he managed to keep his face as bored as her voice. “Yaxley freed you from Azkaban, I see.”

Lestrange smiled at her. It was a fearsome sight and it was all she could do not to step backwards. “He felt leniency was in order for many people who had been caught up in the war,” he said. “Reconstruction of society and all.”

“Quite,” she said. 

“It’s why your dear love’s parents drink tea in their lovely house instead of dining with the devil.”

There didn’t seem to be a way to answer that so Hermione put a bland expression on, her own Death Eater’s mask, and waited for him to continue. She’d learned that silence could be more a more effective weapon than denunciation or, as Moody put it, give the bastards enough rope and they always hung themselves.

“Things aren’t like they were,” he said. He leaned in closer and she could smell his breath. His eyes looked wild enough she expected whiskey, or the sickly aftersmoke of some peculiar narcotic, but he exhaled nothing but a stale coffee reek. That was bad enough. “We were like gods, once,” he said. “Or acolytes. I was loyal. The _most_ loyal.”

“I recall,” Draco said dryly. “Very well, thank you.”

“You.” Rodolphus pointed a finger at him. He chewed on his nails and a gnawed cuticle waggled at Draco. “You are nothing.”

“So I am frequently told,” Draco said.

“But she,” Rodolphus went on, “she helped bring down… Potter will come back. I know it.”

Hermione considered the line she’d added to the miserable prophecy. “Like Arthur?” she asked. She tried to keep her voice polite and encouraging. It must have worked because Rodolphus brightened at once.

“Yes,” he said with more of his mad enthusiasm. Spittle tried to escape his mouth and Hermione decided that was an acceptable reason to take a step backward. Not showing fear was one thing but she didn’t think she needed to allow herself to be spit upon. “Exactly. You understand. We were elevated beyond reports and bribery and the endless petty dealings of human corruption and now… now we are like nothing. Like the rotting Malfoys.”

“Well,” she said, “things are tough all over.”

“Potter will return,” Rodolphus assured her. “You don’t need to be afraid. You don’t need to shelter with them. You know.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared into his son’s hospital room and just as Hermione was about to let out an exhale of relief he stuck his head back outside the door frame and said, in a totally sane and normal tone, “And thank you for only hitting Archibald in the shoulder. I do appreciate that and shan’t forget it.” Then he pulled his head back in, the door shut, and Hermione was left staring at Draco.

Draco, who was looking at the door to Archibald’s room with his mouth partially open. “Well,” he said after a moment.

“Azkaban is hard on people,” Hermione ventured.

“I suppose,” Draco said. He sounded like he suspected Rodolphus had been utterly round the bend long before his stints in prison. “Let’s go home.”

Hermione thought that was the best idea she’d heard in a while.


	18. Chapter 18

Dressing for dinner seemed to be a thing at the Malfoy estate, and though she wanted to lie down and let sleep hide all the stress of the day, Hermione dutifully pulled on a dress fancy enough to be polite, the highest heels she could find in the wardrobe, and a necklace she found sitting on her desk. A quick check assured her it wasn’t hexed and it was pretty enough. Maybe Narcissa thought she needed more accessories. 

“So,” Lucius said as she and Draco arrived in the dining room, announced by the steady tapping click of the heels on their floors. “You’re still here.”

He looked like he was half way through a glass of wine and she suspected it wasn’t his first.

“I am,” Hermione said. She let Draco pull out her chair and settled down into it with a smile forced onto her face. “Draco and I are a couple, Mr. Malfoy. I think we’re getting closer and closer with each day. Maybe tomorrow we can look through his baby books together.”

Lucius snorted.

“They are becoming quite adorable, dear,” Narcissa said. She took a dainty sip from her own wine glass. “Do you remember how we met? I was not enamored of you at first, either.”

“You were a snob,” Lucius said. “Noble and Ancient House of Black. Your father thought you were too good for the likes of me.”

“Well,” Narcissa said, “it is an ancient and noble lineage.”

“Inbred,” Lucius said. “Shows in some of you, too. Malfoys have always been smarter about not shopping for wives at family reunions.”

Hermione thought of Bellatrix and had to cough to hide her snicker. Narcissa ignored them both and picked up her little bell and rang it. Food appeared and, grateful to be able to avoid conversation by chewing, Hermione stabbed her fork into the lettuce leaves and pushed them into her mouth. Narcissa took a much smaller bite. “Dear Bella always had her problems,” she said, “But it is unkind to speak ill of the dead. De mortuis nihil nisi bonum.”

“Speaking of the Lestranges,” Draco said as he pushed a tomato around his plate, “We went to see Archibald at St. Mungo’s today. Ran into his father.”

“That is not his father,” Lucius said. He drained his wine glass and poured himself another. Hermione tried not to notice he hadn’t eaten any of his salad. Was not eating an aristocratic thing? Was she supposed to just nibble at foods like a rabbit, too delicate to eat? That struck her as ridiculous and she took another large bite of the salad. 

“He is as good as,” Narcissa said with a serenity that seemed too forced to be authentic. “Rodolphus has always said the boy is his and, certainly, he acts as though he were. Family is more than genetics, my love.”

“Rodolphus can say whatever he wants,” Lucius said. “I could say Draco’s tart here is a pureblood. Doesn’t make it so.”

“Father,” Draco said with a gritted smile, “Be nice or Hermione might decide she no longer wants me in her life.”

Lucius looked at Hermione but before he could open his mouth Narcissa said, “Lucius,” in a warning tone that stopped whatever he was going to say. 

“As long as you’re happy,” Lucius settled on.

“Hermione is the love of my life,” Draco said. “How can you doubt that she makes me happy?”

Lucius gave him a long, level look before taking another sip of his wine and Hermione was reminded that under the drunk lay a man who wasn’t stupid.

“And how was dear Rodolphus?” Narcissa asked in a deliberate and obvious change of subject. 

“Crazy,” Hermione said. 

“Inbreeding,” Lucius said.

“Probably Azkaban,” Draco said.

“He was always a bloody loon,” Lucius said. He poured himself more wine. “I think he would have humped the Dark Lord’s leg if he thought he could have gotten away with it.”

“That,” Narcissa allowed somewhat delicately, “Might be true. He was always very… intense… in his passion for Voldemort.”

“Is he happy with the current regime,” Hermione asked. She picked up a knife and began cutting a cucumber on her plate into smaller and smaller pieces so she could focus on that and not have to look at Narcissa. Eye contact struck her as a bad idea when asking these sorts of questions.

“Perhaps not,” Narcissa said. 

Hermione chewed. She swallowed. She waited for someone to say something else but a heavy silence had fallen over the table. They stayed in awkward, miserable, conversation-less silence until a chime pealed and Lucius, wine glass half way to his mouth, said, “I thought you said we’d be spared any of the idiot brigade tonight.”

Draco coughed into his napkin. Hermione looked at his plate, looked at her own, and frowned. Before she could pursue the thought nagging at the edge of her mind, the door to the dining room opened and Antonin Dolohov strode in. 

“Antonin,” Narcissa said. “What a surprise.”

“It is still my house, am I not correct?” Lucius asked. 

Antonin ignored him to level a look at Hermione. She could feel herself wanting to shrink under that stare and forced herself to stay erect in her seat. “Mr. Dolohov,” she said. “What a pleasure.”

“Do you take the paper, Miss Granger?” he asked her.

Whatever she had expected him to say, that was not it. “I have in the past,” she said. “At school. Over the past few years I have been too unsettled in my living arrangements to read much of anything and I have barely settled in here.” She set her fork down, folded her hands in her lap and tried to channel Narcissa Malfoy. “Have you taken up selling subscriptions?”

Draco kicked her under the table.

She ignored the sharp throb in her ankle and kept smiling.

Dolohov’s smile would have frozen a hot spring. “Then you won’t be disappointed tomorrow when _The Daily Prophet_ doesn’t arrive.”

“I can probably survive,” Hermione said. “Their reporting is a bit shoddy of late, anyway.”

“What is this about, Dolohov?” Lucius demanded. He probably meant to sound authoritative and dominant but ended up seeming more petulant. “Why come storming in to disrupt dinner to tell us the presses are behind schedule?”

Dolohov pulled out a photograph and tossed it on the table in front of Hermione. Flames licked at the building that housed _The Daily Prophet. _She could still see the paper’s name above the door, and someone was climbing down a ladder propped up to one window. It didn’t look like a total loss, but she could see there would be no paper the next day, or the one after that. She didn’t think it much loss. They’d printed tripe when she’d been a child and they printed tripe now. She supported the free press in theory but this particular paper had never seemed that accurate to her. Even the tabloids got it right more often. “Someone fall asleep at his desk with a lit cigarette?” she asked. “Boiler accident?”

Dolohov shook his head. “Arson,” he said. “And right after you come and join us so, forgive me, but I am interested in your - assessment, shall we say – of the event.”

“I’ve been with Draco all day,” she said. “We went to Diagon Alley, had ice cream, went to Saint Mungo’s.”

“And saw dear, touched Rodolphus, I know,” Dolohov said. “I hope he wasn’t too upsetting to you.”

“He seemed lovely,” Hermione said.

“Stopped in a little antique shop, too, didn’t you?” he asked.

Hermione could feel sweat begin to trickle down her sides. “We were in a shopping area,” she said. “I went shopping.”

“Caught up with old friends?” he asked.

Draco’s fork tines scraped against his plate. 

“I am a friendly person,” Hermione said. “And a war heroine. I know a lot of people.”

“A lot of Weasleys,” Dolohov said.

“Is that a crime?” she asked. She was afraid it might be.

He dropped another photograph in front of her. “Given how popular you are, I’m sure you can identify who this is,” he said.

It was Percy. She closed her eyes as if that would make the picture of him, sleeves rolled up to flaunt his tattoos, go away. It didn’t. When she looked at it again he was still there, tossing a bomb through the glass. He tossed it over and over and over again as she watched, the picture on the eternal loop of all wizarding photographs.

Dolohov had gotten this printed quickly, she thought as she touched the black and white moving arm with one finger.

Percy tossed the bomb again.

She wanted to scream at him. How could he be so careless. _Constant Vigilance_, Moody had said over and over and over again. She’d grown to hate that phrase but his insistence had worked. They’d never gone out into the field unless they were disguised. Percy should have taken Polyjuice. That was the standard operating procedure. She should be looking at a forgettable man, the lookalike of one of any number of band Muggles whose hair they’d taken from barber shops. Instead she was starting down at a man obviously himself. He’d rolled his sleeves. She could cry.

“Percy Weasley,” she said. “Oh, Percy.”

“I believe we call that terrorism,” Dolohov said.

_Well_, Hermione thought to herself. _You would know._ Her shoulder still pulled sometimes where he had struck her. They’d been the sorts to blow up bridges and kill Muggles in the streets. She looked back down at Percy. 

“Don’t you agree, Miss Granger?” he asked. “Surely you don’t support such, well, I hate to call it hooliganism. It’s a bit more serious than that.”

She pushed the photograph away. “I may not care for every aspect of current Wizengamot policy,” she said, “but reasonable people can debate such things without descending to violence.”

“Reasonable people don’t bomb newspaper offices,” Dolohov said. “I assume you abhor such goings on.”

She could feel the trap closing. Was everyone at the table staring at her? “No,” she said. “They do not.” She forced a cool smile to her face and looked up at the waiting Death Eater. “And yes, I do. I suspect I can lead you to where he’s gone to ground. There are only a handful of places he would be and I should know them all.”

Dolohov held out his hand. “No time like the present, Miss Granger.” He glanced down at her shoes. “Though I think perhaps we should delay long enough for you to put on more appropriate and practical footwear and perhaps trousers. Not that you do not look lovely as you are.”

She let him help her to her feet and managed not to snap that she was perfectly capable of standing without help.

Draco pushed his own chair back. “I’ll escort you back to your room,” he said.

“Yes,” said Dolohov. “I’d hate for her to get lost and somehow end up across the channel.” His smile grew sharper. “You would hate that too, surely.”

“Indeed,” Draco said. He held the door for Hermione and she kept her composure intact until it shut behind them and left Dolohov and his wretched photographs on one side with Draco’s parents. On their side, Draco looked at her. “Do you want a portkey?” he asked quietly. 


	19. Chapter 19

“A portkey?” Hermione bent down to pry one of the shoes off and flexed and stretched her foot. “Why would I want that?”

“Mother can make you one,” Draco continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. She was only half-listening to him because her mind was churning over how angry she was at Percy for this. She understood being angry because of Fred’s death. Maybe not quite as viscerally as he did, but her time in the Order has been fueled by rage just as much as his had, and yet was she carelessly flaunting herself as she burned things down? She was not.

She straightened up, both shoes dangling from her hand, as Draco said, “I would understand.”

“Understand what?” she asked. She had no idea what he was talking about and right now seemed like a bad time to go into whatever feelings he wanted to discuss.

“Understand that you wanted to join everyone else in France.”

Hermione blinked at him a few times. 

“Why would I do that?” She knew that she wasn’t unclever. She was used to being able to follow even the most convoluted arguments. This made the opacity of the way Draco was nattering on even more annoying.

She began to walk briskly toward her room as he gaped, then hurried to keep up with her. “Dolohov is probably gathering Death Eaters,” he said. “They’re going to… he’s going to use you to track down Percy Weasley and then kill him.” He paused. “Or put him on some sort of a show trial. He might prefer that.”

They passed a portrait of one of the endless Malfoy ancestors. Hermione wondered why rich people wanted to be constantly staring at the dead. She certainly didn’t want her great-great Aunt sitting around in constant judgement of what she was doing.

Of what she was about to do.

“He’s your friend,” Draco said.

“Percy knew what he was doing,” said tightly, though what in Merlin’s name that was she had no idea. He was a fool. He was a brave, noble, stupid fool of a man who had decided he was right and so he was just going to do what he wanted. “He’s an adult. He’s responsible for his own choices.”

“I just… I don’t want you to have to do this,” Draco said.

She stopped walking and turned to look at him. “And what happens if I run off?” she asked. She knew the answer but she wanted to hear him say it.

“I’m sure I’d survive,” he said. He forced a smile to his face. It was even and perfect. You could sell toothpowders with that gleaming smile. “My family is still significant enough that just killing me out of hand wouldn’t go over well, and my mother, well, you know.”

“What would happen to you,” she asked again.

“Crucio,” he said with no inflection. “But, like I said, I’d survive. I’ve survived before.”

She reached a hand out and brushed some of the hair out of his face. It was almost white, that hair. Really, it was an absolutely absurd color for hair to be. “Well, I won’t be responsible for you suffering it this time,” she said.

He took a step back, out of the reach of her hand, and that smile faltered. “What?” he asked.

“I’m going to go to my room,” she said, “put on practical trousers, and lead Antonin Dolohov to where Percy most likely is. And then we will come back here and have cake. There is cake, right?”

“Why?” He whispered the question.

“I like cake,” she said. “And you need to eat more.” She knew that wasn’t what he meant, but before he could press, before they might risk some kind of display, she turned on her hare heel and headed off toward her wardrobe and her trousers and her betrayal.

Draco followed her like a puppy. She left him standing, lost, in the sitting area of her suite as she shut the door to the bedroom and changed. When she came out in the most offensively Muggle thing she could find – though she doubted the concert t-shirt would mean anything to Dolohov – he hadn’t moved. He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before and she had to push away the urge to slap the expression off his face. She knew her feelings weren’t fair. She knew they were really about Percy. She hadn’t expected being the plant inside the Malfoy’s estate to be fun. From the moment she’d picked up the bracelet still on her wrist she’d assumed she’d be asked to do things abhorrent to her.

She’d just expected those things to involve sex with Malfoy. 

Betraying a man whose brother she’d planned to marry hadn’t ever crossed her mind as a possibility. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to lash out at anyone who made the mistake of getting in her way. Instead she took a deep breath. “Will you be coming along?” she asked.

“If I have to,” he said. 

He had to.

Dolohov looked far more pleased by Hermione’s non-wizarding attire than she would have expected until she realized she’d given him the perfect optic. They gathered outside one of the little cottages that had become safe houses for the Order and she stood with her bushy hair and Muggle trainers and tie-dyed shirt and there was no mistaking her. The black robes and masks the Death Eaters wore framed her as she walked to the cottage, broke the Fidelius, and let them in.

Percy was sitting at the table eating a bowl of soup and reading a biography of Trotsky.

He wasn’t expecting her.

She’d half-hoped he would be. She’d hoped his obvious mistake hadn’t been a mistake at all but had been a plan to have her lure Death Eaters into a trap where they’d be met with enough firepower to kill them all. Instead he looked up, spoon half-way to his mouth, and said, “What are you doing here?” before Dolphov spoke. Despite the mask the smug pleasure in his voice gave him away.

“Percy Weasley,” he said. “You are under arrest for domestic terrorism.”

“Hermione?” Percy asked.

“Yes, Hermione,” Dolohov said. She could feel his smile in his voice. “She’s quite the good little defector, Weasley. I admit I had my doubts. I thought no one could possibly like Draco Malfoy enough to turn against everyone she’s ever known but, well, perhaps what young Malfoy can’t offer the knowledge she’s on the winning side does. I admire that kind of pragmatism.”

“It was wrong to blow that building up, Percy,” Hermione said. “Real change is effected through the democratic process.”

She hoped she didn’t sound as wooden as she felt. She hoped the thing in her throat threatening to choke her wasn’t obvious to all these men in black robes and silver masks. 

“I assume you’ll testify at his trial,” Dolohov said. It was a near purr.

“I am at your disposal,” Hermione said. “Terrorism cannot be allowed to stand.”

“Bitch,” Percy said. The word was low, shocked, and vibrating with hatred. It pounded against her heart. “You _bitch_,” he said again. “You _whore_.”

The diamond bracelet felt very heavy as Hermione turned to go. “May I leave?” she asked Dolohov. 

“I’ll be in touch, Miss Weasley,” he said. As she walked out of the cottage she heard the sounds of Death Eaters physically beating Percy Weasley. She could hear each blow fall despite how loud her footsteps were. The wand she made no movement to grab pressed a rebuke into her side. At least they wouldn’t kill him. They had opted for the trial. She would testify. Everyone would know. She wanted to be sick.

One of the Death Eaters followed after her, his robe swirling around his feet, and she knew by the set of the shoulders it was Draco. He took her hand and she clung to those fingers so tightly it had to be painful, but he said only, “Shall I side apparate you?”

“Please,” she said, and then she was sucked into the void.

She just had time to think _Destination, Determination, Deliberation_ and they were at the driveway that wound up to Malfoy Manor. The house loomed down at them, and a peacock was screaming somewhere off in the distance, and she could feel the tears begin to burn at the corners of her eyes.

“Cake, I think you wanted,” Draco said.

She managed to choke out, “Cake would be lovely,” and then he was holding the door and Narcissa was on the other side and pulling her into a hug that left her shocked senseless. 

“In this war,” the woman said so very softly into her ear, “there is nothing we will not do.”

If you had asked Hermione a week earlier if she ever would have felt comforted by Narcissa Malfoy, she would have laughed. Now she felt her spine stiffen because this arrogant, aristocratic nightmare of a human being was absolutely right. “I will see them all in Azkaban,” she said back, her voice just a hint of a breath at Narcissa’s ear. “I will find their weaknesses and I will take them all down.”

“I know,” Narcissa murmured.

Narcissa released her after that and smiled with conspiratorial pleasure before saying with her regular, posh sneer, “I had the staff make a nice lemon cake. Perhaps with tea in the privacy of your suite? We were so rudely interrupted with this little problem before dessert.”

Little problem, indeed.

“That would be lovely,” Hermione said. “Thank you.”

“Draco,” Narcissa said. “Come with me and I’ll give you a tray to bring up.”

Hermione trudged through the corridors alone, past the ancient Malfoys and the inexplicable pictures of birds and fruit that the Malfoys, like every miserable museum she’d ever been dragged to in primary, seemed to collect. The carpets were thick and flawless. The manor airy and beautiful. The decorations beyond compare.

She supposed spies had sold their souls in less attractive environs. She understood Snape had lived in a slum, one of those old two up two downs that, for whatever reason, no one had gotten around to bulldozing quite yet. She supposed if she had to pick a place to live while being hated by her own side, this was better.

The food had to be better. Draco appeared before she’d even kicked her trainers off, tray of miniature glazed lemon cakes in hand. He set it down on the floor by the fire and, as she sat and watched, he lit the blaze with a wordless, wandless spell, poured her some tea, and handed her a plate and fork. She dug into the cake in silence and took a bite. It was excellent. The lemon gave just enough bite and the sugary topping wasn’t overwhelming. The Malfoys didn’t spare any expense when it came to hiring an excellent chef.

What was Percy eating tonight? What was Ron?

She took another bite. “This is good,” she said.

“Yes,” Draco said. “If you like it, I’ll ask they make it again.”

“That would be nice,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he said. 

She’d been keeping her eyes fixed on the cake and the way the firelight danced over it but that made her look at him. His mouth had twisted and his fingers were shaking. He set his plate down on the rug and the fork clattered against it.

“It was nothing,” she said.

“It wasn’t,” he said, and that was when she started to cry. Great, wracking sobs shook her until she had doubled over as if making herself smaller might make the pain go away. Somewhere in there, Draco took the plate from her hand and set it aside, and moved the tea cup away, and he was holding her and she had her face pressed into his shirt and she was crying and crying and crying and it didn’t help. Nothing was ever going to help again.


	20. Chapter 20

Hermione finished copying off the day’s stolen documents and shook her hand before sending them off to Molly. She’d been waitig for some kind of condemnation to come her way. Molly had always been quick with a Howler. Nothing had come. No reassurance she was still one of them. No fury at what she’d done to Percy. When she activated the protean charm and sent the copied pages away, there was a brief flicker, the page read, ‘_Thanks. This is helpful’_ and that was it.

Draco took the pages. They’d both decided they were better off returning the originals. A few missing documents might go unremarked, but they’d been taking so many that even the least observant bureaucrat would notice something was wrong with the filing if they just burned the lot. “Any word?” he asked.

She shook her head. 

“Maybe they haven’t heard yet,” Draco said. “Trial starts tomorrow. It’ll be all over the papers then.”

Hermione wanted him to say that the Weasleys wouldn’t repudiate her, that they had to know it had been done to keep her placed so she could send them these lists and agendas and classified discussions. If he did, though, he’d be lying. They both knew that the moment Molly Weasley heard what had happened, whatever she felt for Hermione would alchemize to hate. Ron…

She didn’t want to think about what Ron would assume.

“Come on,” Draco stood up, pages in hand. “I’ll drop these off and then we’ll go feed the peacocks.”

Hermione could think of a thousand things she’d rather do than feed the peacocks. They were loud and she was always afraid they would bite. They looked at her as if she were some kind of intruder they wouldn’t deign to fear. “The peacocks?” she said, but she stood up and followed him. None of the other things she wanted to do were available to her anyway.

She couldn’t exactly tell Yaxley where to shove his fascist regime, for example, or that he should make sure to stuff it way up with something sharp and rusty.

“They like you,” Draco said.

Hermione snorted.

“They do,” he insisted. She glanced at one of the portraits as the passed through the hall. The woman, beautifully dressed in a black gown with a tight waist and a hilariously useless apron, rolled her eyes. She seemed to share Hermione’s opinion of the birds or perhaps of Draco’s assurance that they liked her.

“Mr. Malfoy.” 

The words intruded into the hall. The woman in the portrait opened her fan and became busy not looking out.

Hermione pushed a smile onto her face and nodded as they greeted some political flunky or other, here to do who knew what. She sometimes wished they kept all their miserable, rotten business at the Ministry. Of course, that would mean she’d lose her easy access to their paperwork. The price seemed high.

“Lovely day,” the man said. “You young people should get out, go for a walk, enjoy the sunshine.”

“We were just on our way to feed the peacocks,” Draco said.

“Good idea,” the man said, and then he passed them, brisk steps carrying him along. It was the banality of the way this batch of Death Eaters went about their business that Hermione found most galling. Voldemort had cackled and postured and declaimed. He had been an evil villain. This man would just write reports advocating some despicable thing, or calculating up the costs of one horrible idea versus another, and then he’d file them. He’d go home to dinner with his wife. He probably truly wished them both well, thought it would be nice to get out and feed the birds. Maybe he was already planning to take a lunch break and apparate over to some duck pond or other and toss them bread, watch them fight over the scraps of his lunch.

Bread was bad for ducks. She’d read that somewhere. They’d fight over it, but it didn’t have the nutrients they needed to survive. She was pretty sure there was some kind of metaphor for the current government and the pap they tossed the masses there but before she could articulate it to herself they were at the secret passage way and slipping through so they could return one set of papers, then it was out into the sunshine and she didn’t want to think about misery and oppression. She turned her face up so she could feel the light and the outdoors seep into her. Draco stood behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.

“I hate the peacocks,” she said.

“Then we won’t feed them,” he said. He slid his hands down her arms and she leaned back against him on this warm, beautiful day. He was so much more stable than she would have expected. “I asked mother to get some of the champagne you like at dinner tonight.”

“Is it a party?” she asked. That was a dreadful idea. Parties meant guests and guests meant Death Eaters, or whatever this generation called themselves. She could almost hear them saying, “I’m not a Death Eater. I just think that…”.

They were Death Eaters. Even if they didn’t have the Mark burned into their arms, they couldn’t hide what they were.

“Maybe I can develop a headache,” she said.

“My mother’s already uses that excuse,” Draco said. “I recommend female problems.”

“Ugh.” Hermione did not want to imagine these people contemplating her monthly or that it might be heavy enough to keep her from socializing. “I think I’ll just attend.

“Well, tonight it’s just us,” he said, “so you don’t have to worry. I asked for champagne because you like it, not because we’re celebrating.”

“We can celebrate it’s just us,” she said dryly. That was reason enough to be glad. 

“If you like.”

She would have liked it more if it had stayed just them, standing there on the lawn at Malfoy Manor, unmoving, alone. It didn’t. A pair of gardeners passed carrying spades, then a woman in a domestic uniform right out of a movie – perhaps this was the architect of those lemon cakes – and then a pair of black robed politicians.

“Busy today,” she said.

“They should meet elsewhere.” Draco murmured in her ear. He sounded as displeased as she felt. Contempt for the peasants lingered under his words. “This isn’t an open house day where you can pay a fee and come walk in the gardens.”

Hermione turned to look at him. “Honestly,” she said. “You do know normal people don’t open their homes up to the public once a year, right?”

He shrugged and slid his hands down her arms, then rested them in the small of her back. Cormac McLaggen, on their one ill-fated date, had done that. He’d grabbed her arse right after, and she’d stomped on his foot hard enough he’d sworn, then called her feisty with a hungry grin. She’d hidden from him the rest of the night. She waited for Draco to slide his hands lower in a similar fashion but he didn’t. She could hear the scream of one of the ridiculous peacocks and the sound of the Death Eaters feet crunching on the gravel path. “Look adoring,” Draco said quietly. “They’re watching.”

Of course they were. 

Hermione raised a hand to brush his hair away and gazed with what she hoped looked like romantic fervor into Draco’s eyes. It probably just looked like she had a squint but she was doing her best. Acting had never been her forte.

“You really are pretty,” he said. 

“You shouldn’t sound so surprised,” Hermione said, a bit disgruntled. “It ruins the effect.”

He grinned his crooked little smile at her. “You are, though,” he said. “Your hair is too bushy and you can’t muster a dopey with love expression to save your life, and I think you might be considering killing me right now, and it shouldn’t add up to pretty, but it does.”

“Not kill,” she said. “Maybe maim. Just a little.”

“Was it the too bushy comment?”

“Mmm hmm.” The damned Death Eaters had stopped just a few yards away and were engaged in some conversation she couldn’t quite make out. If they had to show up, wander around, make her do this romantic play, they could at least project their voices a little. They could be _useful_. The whole thing made her unreasonably cross.

Or maybe that was the bushy hair comment.

There was nothing wrong with her hair.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

She twitched and fought the urge to say something snippy about, well, if her hair wasn’t in the way, sure, go ahead.

“It’s just that they’re looking,” he said quietly. “And I think a real couple would be kissing.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re right. It’s fine.”

He lowered his head to hers. She raised a hand to cup it behind his neck, pulling him in, and he tightened his grip on her back. He felt nice. _Just breathe_, she thought to herself_. Just do this. It isn’t real. No one would begrudge you that it isn’t horrible. _

It was, after all, just kissing.

It wasn’t supposed to be horrible.

Draco parted his lips ever so slightly, hesitant and unsure, and she was reminded that he had no real experience. No lover of multiple years waiting off stage with flowers, only a sort-of ex who had decided he was bad for her career. She stopped to affectionately brush her nose against his, then licked at the edge of his mouth. He made the tiniest of sounds, not a groan – barely a whimper – and something stirred down in the darkest parts of her soul.

She could make him want her.

She ignored the whisper that lingered behind that one that this was a dangerous, _dangerous_ game. She didn’t care. She wanted to be reckless for once. Why did she have to be the clever one, the bookish one. The _reliable_ one. Just send Hermione as a spy into the lair of the enemy. She’ll be fine. Why could Percy snap and do unwise things but not her?

She parted her lips and kissed him with enough fervor to convince even the most suspicious of Death Eaters. She wound her fingers in his hair and then tightened them, pulling a gasp from him, and she swayed against him as though he were the only pillar in a storm and she was a fragile thing blown by the wind, held steady only by his hands.

“Hermione.” It was a guttural sound. It was a desperate sound. Before she could really revel in the knowledge she had made Draco Malfoy make that noise, he extricated himself from her grasp, twisted himself to in a more normal tone of voice. 

She took a deep breath. “Right,” she said.

“Good show,” he said.

“Right,” she said again. 

“There’s a rabbit,” Draco said. It seemed apropos of nothing, and it took her a moment to follow where he was pointing. He was right. A small, brown rabbit sat at the edge of a group of bushes, cleaning its paws and ears. She waited for it to realize it had been spotted and dart off, but it didn’t seem to have the sense to run away.

“Cute,” she said, then, “I think I want to go lie down.” She wanted to be away from Death Eaters, away from him, away from this constant pretense. She wanted to write to Ron. She wanted him to write back. How could he have been so lazy as to never master the protean charm. Sending every message through Molly was unbearable. She couldn’t explain what had happened to Molly. She couldn’t tell Molly she missed her. She couldn’t tell Molly anything.

She really shouldn’t tell Ron anything. He could guess. Better he not have to picture her wrapped up in Draco’s arms, putting on a show for loathsome men.

“You should rest,” Draco said. “Tomorrow the trial starts.”

She nodded. That would be the real show. 

He touched her arm. “You’re doing good work,” he said. “All that information you’re smuggling out. It will help.”

She hoped so. She smiled, a tight, miserable expression, then slipped back into the house, back through the corridors, back to her room.

The black glass bird Draco had made sat on the shelf, looking at her. It was all she could do not to throw it into the wall.


	21. Chapter 21

Hermione dressed for the trial with care she hadn’t used since the Yule Ball ages ago when she had been a child and all that had mattered had been being pretty for a night. That had ended badly. She hoped this went better. She hoped she didn’t end up in tears after this one.

She thought she probably would, however.

The pencil skirt was Muggle, fitted, grey, and expensive. Every seam screamed that this had been made by people who cared about how fabric lay more than about mass production. The fabric itself whispered of age old wealth and conservatism and people who said things like _the poor buy everything twice,_ oblivious to the reality that most people would never be able to afford this kind of quality. 

She’d be able to pass this skirt down to a grandchild, assuming she lived long enough to have one.

The blouse tied at the neck, a bow that should have been dowdy and dated and instead seemed just daring enough to make respectability fun. Hermione pulled it on thinking she had to ask Narcissa where she shopped or, perhaps, how she spotted good finds. She would never have pulled this off a rack, never have even considered it would be anything other than boring. The diamond bracelet glittered at her wrist. The heels she slipped on were, perhaps, higher than she would have picked but she had to admit, as she examined the whole ensemble, they worked. They hurt, but they said power. They said confidence.

Draco wore black. Expensive black. Elegant black. But black. He walked her to the front stoop where Narcissa waited. Lucius, it seemed, would not be attending. Narcissa picking a single loose curl Hermione had been unable to wrestle into submission, tucked it into her chignon, and murmured a charm. Whether the magic held, or the curl was simply afraid to defy the matriarch, Hermione wasn’t sure. Either way, it stayed out of her eyes and where it belonged.

“Dolohov will be minding his manners,” Narcissa said. Hermione wasn’t so sure this would be the case but she smiled as though she believed it. Narcissa wasn’t fooled. “It behooves him to have you seem cooperative,” she said. “Bullying you will not accomplish that.”

That Hermione could believe.

When they apparated to the Ministry building, it seemed Narcissa was right. A group of reporters clustered on the steps, enough notice-me-not charms in place that the Muggle citizens of London passed by without a sideways glance. What was the collective noun for reporters? A gaggle as if they were geese? An argument as if wizards? There had to be a perfect word to describe them. “A miller,” she said.

“What?” Draco asked.

“The collective noun,” Hermione said. “Everyone knows a murder of crows. It’s a miller of whores.”

He glanced at the reporters and one side of his mouth tweaked up. “Nice,” he said.

Rita Skeeter was there, of course, but perhaps time had taught her to be wary of people named Hermione. The pink feather she had shoved in her pointed hat wiggled and danced as she backed away, allowing Hermione to trace her movements through the pack. Through the _miller_. Other reporters were not so clever. “Miss Granger,” one said, shoving a quill under her face, “how does it feel to betray the brother of a man you were reportedly planning to marry?”

She could feel her hand tightening on Draco’s arm.

“Miss Granger,” asked another, “does this mean you regret having helped bring down You-Know-Who?”

“Miss Granger! Are you doing this because you’re fucking Draco Malfoy?”

Antonin Dolohov appeared out of nowhere, an unexpected savior, and the waves that had been threatening to drown her parted for him. “Miss Granger,” he said, and bowed over her hand. “Would you like anything to drink before the trial begins? A glass of tea?”

“No, thank you,” she said. 

She, Draco and Narcissa followed him through the crowd until he turned at the door of the Ministry and said, “Give them something for their articles, won’t you my dear?” The reporters started to shout again, hurling questions at her like hatred, until Dolohov held up his hand. “Let her speak,” he said.

She could hear the cameras going off, immortalizing her. The papers would feature Hermione Granger, flanked by Malfoys and a Dolohov. Did she look like a political prisoner? Did she look willing? Would Ron see this and know she had to do it?

“I abhor the use of violence against a free press,” she said. “Terrorism was the way of Voldemort. It isn’t mine.”

She could see the look of utter, smug satisfaction on Dolohov’s face as he turned her again, one hand on her back, and drove her into the building. She ignored it.

She was seated toward the front, on a long hard bench. Draco settled on one side of her, Narcissa on the other, and Draco took her hand and squeezed it. Percy already sat in a heavy wooden chair, his wrists and ankles chained down. That pale, pale Weasley skin had blanched even further, leaving his freckles spots of dark rage scattered on his face. She could see bruises, some an aged yellow, some a fresher purple. He wasn’t having a good time of it in custody.

He wouldn’t look at her.

That made him the only one. The court room was filled with people who whispered and jostled one another as she sat down and as she waited with what she hoped looked like boring, impermeable, patience. She could feel their eyes on her. 

She leaned her shoulder into Draco’s and he tightened his grip on her hand. A lightbulb flashed. “Should I tell them my better angle is from the other side,” Draco whispered in her ear. She smiled, half-hysterically, and let herself be grateful for the support. 

“You look equally good from both sides,” she whispered back. “Don’t be vain.”

“Shall we go out when this is over?” Narcissa said. She surveyed the room as if she had found herself, quite unexpectedly, surrounded by badly trained house pets and she wanted to be careful not to step in anything foul as she picked her way free. “Something quiet.”

“No, thank you,” Hermione said. After this she wanted to go back to her room and cry. 

Things got worse as the trial began and her face grew tighter with misery. Percy didn’t bother to deny what he’d done. He sat in the chair like a knight armored in truth. You could chain him like an animal but that didn’t change what he was. “Your paper spews lies,” he said. “Your government is a lie. Since when does wizarding Britain have a _lord_? Who elected _Lord Yaxley_?”

“Was it your idea to bomb the building,” the prosecutor asked, “Or were you following orders.”

“If I followed instructions it was because I believed them to be just,” Percy said. He looked at Hermione for the first time. “I am more interested in doing what is right than in saving my own skin.”

“You think you’re noble?” the prosecutor asked. “I say you are a terrorist.” The courtroom erupted into cheers. People banged their feet on the floor and called out agreement. Percy didn’t waver. He didn’t even acknowledge the crowd. His eyes stayed levelly on Hermione and, recognizing the drama of the moment, the prosecutor turned to her.

“Miss Granger,” he said. “Can you identify this man? He certainly appears to know you.”

She nodded and stood. She pointed at Percy. “That,” she said, “is Pervical Weasley, son of Arthur and Molly Weasley, active member of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Do you believe he acted alone?” the prosecutor asked her.

Hermione hesitated, and at last said, “I don’t know.”

“You were a member of the Order,” the prosecutor said.

“I was,” she said. “During the War Against Voldemort. The Second Wizarding War. I was. I knew him then.”

Dolohov fixed his gaze on the prosecutor. She could see their wordless communication. Had they rehearsed this? Probably. “You have repudiated them,” the prosecutor asked. 

She took a deep breath. “Fighting Voldemort was one thing,” she said. “Bombing businesses where innocent people work is another.”

“But you know the way they operate,” he pressed.

“I do,” she admitted. “Or I did.”

“Do you think Percy Weasley did this on his own or under the direct orders of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“It would be very unusual for a member to strike out on his own,” she said. “It is a small group and coordination is key. Coordination and constant vigilance,” she added. She wanted to shame Percy. She wanted him to feel the weight of the mistake he had made. Moody had been on them about _constant vigilance_ which had included the use of polyjuice.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” the prosecutor said smoothly. “Your loyalty to wizarding Britain is noted and commendable.”

She smiled weakly and sat back down. Draco set a hand on her knee and squeezed it reassuringly. Narcissa patted her shoulder. Cameras flashed. 

Percy looked as if he wanted to throttle her. His hands pulled against the chains for the first time and she knew if he’d been able to free himself he would have fastened them around her neck. Well, shaming hadn’t worked.

At least the Dementors weren’t at Azkaban any longer.

The prosecutor began a long, brilliant oratory on the ways the nation needed to come together to resist terrorism. “We have suffered for evil,” he said at one point. “We will not suffer again for fools.” He pointed at Percy as he said that and Hermione felt squirming, unpleasant agreement with his assessment of Percy. The outcome had been foreordained, everyone knew he would be found guilty, and Hermione sat as Aurors dragged Percy from the room, a pawn on the chessboard of war. 

Narcissa wanted to wait until the reporters left, but that was not to be. “Just a wave,” she said. “You’ve already made your statement.”

Flanked by allies, Hermione smiled as gamely as she could on her way out. Narcissa apparated them all home, and brushed dry lips over Hermione’s temple as they landed. “Go rest,” she said. “Do you want me to send up the papers as they arrive?”

Hermione nodded, and then the world became a blur. She knew she somehow made it back to her room. She remembered Draco shutting the door and gently pulling the heels off her feet. She leaned against the wall and wondered why it was the two of them seemed to always end up on the floor when things went badly. Draco rubbed her sole with one thumb and he probably said all the right things, whatever those were. Whatever the right thing to say was when your pretend girlfriend betrayed everyone she knew to keep herself safe he surely said it. She didn’t know. All she knew was he stayed. He stayed when she stripped out of the formal and proper robes and wrapped herself in ratty flannel pajamas. He stayed when she cried. He stayed when she tried to eat the cake. He stayed when she threw it up.

“I’m filthy,” she said at last. She didn’t know how many hours had gone by. “Just like you always said I was.”

“Brave,” he said. “You’re brave.”

“Somehow in books spies are always glamourous,” she said. “They say witty things and go to fabulous parties. They don’t copy out stolen documents or… or… or…”

“Life isn’t like books,” he said.

“No.” 

“You’re brave,” he said again. She’d ended up half in his lap in front of a fire she didn’t remember him lighting. He was still in the black robes he’d worn all day, shoes cast aside but otherwise unchanged. “You’re fierce.”

“I’m afraid,” she said.

“Me too,” he said.

She woke up sometime in the middle of the night. The fire had burnt down and a chill had settled over the room. Her head was on Draco Malfoy’s arm, and he had an arm tucked around her. She thought she ought to get a blanket, or tell him to go back to his room, but then she was asleep again, worn out by the strain of the day.


	22. Chapter 22

“I knew that was my bad side.”

Draco Malfoy waved the paper at Hermione with a crooked smile. Lucius, who’d roused himself from bed and was grumbling his life into a cup of coffee raised his head long enough to look at his son and snort with derision before returning to his own copy of _The Daily Prophet. _Hermione could almost feel herself respond to the son’s charm, and even the father’s irascibility, but the paper stole that away. _Former Order of the Phoenix Member Testifies_ read the headline. Someone had gotten an angle of Percy where the slight man seemed to loom up. Whoever the photographer was had to have laid down on the floor to make his subject seem so threatening. Hermione admired the technical skill required to distort truth so well in something as seemingly objective as a photograph. She also despised it.

The paper had opted to present her in a much more flattering light. Percy might be the frightening, tattooed, terrorist but she was a slight figure sheltering under the wing of the Malfoys. She looked brave and defiant and shaky. She looked like a woman going to tell the truth no matter the cost. It was a well-done bit of propaganda. It was hard not to admire it.

“Don’t you agree?” Draco asked. “I look much better if you get me from here.” He turned his face and posed like a classical Greek portrait. 

“The article isn’t about your vanity, dear,” Narcissa said. “Have another slice of toast.”

Draco’s toast had gotten cold and the butter had recongealed on it. Hermione’s was just as untouched but no one nagged her to eat. She took another sip of tea. Tea her stomach could handle.

“Thank you, mother,” Draco said. “I’m happy with what I have.”

“As you wish,” Narcissa said. “Do you children have any plans today? A new art exhibit has opened. Oil portraits of historical witches. You might like it.”

“Maybe another day,” Hermione said.

“I really think you should go today,” Narcissa said. “If you don’t have other plans, of course. You need to take your mind off strife and just admire beauty. I’m a tremendous fan of this particular artist and have been considering hiring him to paint a portrait just to have some of his work in the house.”

Draco cupped his hand under his chin and coughed expectantly in his pose.

“I think you’re too young for a formal portrait,” Hermione said.

“If you say so,” Draco said. He held the pose a moment longer and she laughed. He grinned his crooked smile at her and she rolled her eyes.

Lucius coughed again, and amidst a flurry of concern from Narcissa as to whether he was well, Hermione and Draco escaped into the corridor, though not without promising to go to this art exhibit.

“I had no idea your mother cared so much about art,” Hermione said under her breath as they passed yet another one of the horrible portraits that already populated Narcissa Malfoy’s house. Why would she be at all interested in an exhibit of yet more of the same?

“Maybe she just wants to get us out for a bit,” Draco said.

“Another public appearance,” Hermione muttered. “Great.”

The sight of Alecto Carrow lumping her way down the hall with her wide feet and her wide neck and her small brain made the idea of getting out suddenly much more appealing. The vile woman sneered as they stepped aside to let her pass. “Little traitor to your own kind,” she said. “What the Mudblood’ll do for you, Malfoy, she’ll do to you, mark my words.”

Draco shuffled his feet and took another step toward Hermione’s suite, but almost without conscious volition Hermione had her wand out and a _petrificus totalus_ cast. Alecto froze and, with one push of a finger, Hermione knocked her over so she toppled to the floor. She pushed the tip of her wand into the woman’s throat. It took only the tiniest, whisper of a cutting charm to draw out a trickle of blood. “I don’t like you,” Hermione said. “And I’m pretty sure no one else does either.”

“Hermione,” Draco said. It was a warning. She ignored it. Alecto Carrow was a monster. She’d made people’s lives miserable at Hogwarts. She’d taught children to torture. She’d slavered at Voldemort’s feet and then moved seamlessly to Yaxley’s. It was easy to hate her.

“In fact, I bet if I killed you right now, it would be recorded as a tragic accident,” Hermione said. “You’d rate _maybe_ a paragraph in the obituary section of _The Daily Prophet, _but probably just a single line. Alecto Carrow, former Death Eater, found accidentally dead.”

“You’d be crucioed,” Draco said. He set a hand on her shoulder which she shook off. “Yaxley is fond of her.”

“It might be worth it,” Hermione said. She pushed her wand harder into Alecto’ throat. If she pushed hard enough, would she be able to kill the woman with force alone? Did she want to? “Call me Mudblood one more time and I’ll find out. Bother Draco one more time, and I’ll find out. Are we very clear?”

She looked at the tiny red stain dripping down her victim’s neck and took a deep breath, then put her wand away and straightened up. “I want to change before we go to the gallery,” she said. “Something in this hall smells and I’m afraid it might have seeped into this shirt.”

“Okay,” Draco said. He glanced nervously back at Alecto, still lying on the floor, as Hermione walked off. “Are we just going to leave her there?”

Hermione stopped walking and looked at him. He’d done that to Harry once. Broken his nose, too. She remembered those days. Those innocent, innocent days. “Are you really asking me that?” she said. 

Draco followed her train of through with no difficulty. “I was a child,” he said.

“And if she crosses me again, I’ll do more than leave her there,” Hermione said. She smiled back at Alecto, who could hear every word, then turned and stopped where she stood. Dolohov had rounded a corner. It was, it seemed, another day of fun, secret meetings here at the Manor. Looking at art was sounding better with every passing moment.

“Miss Granger,” he said and nodded his head. “Mr. Malfoy.”

“Mr. Dolohov,” she said with every bit of courtesy she could muster. 

He stepped over the prone Alecto without so much as glancing down at her and kept going.

By the time they reached her room, Hermione was beginning to wonder if breakfast was too soon for a drink. No wonder Lucius had become an alcoholic with these people coming and going all the time. “So,” she said, a little shakily, “art.”

“I like art,” Draco said.

They seemed to have decided to not talk about the trial, or what she’d done to Alecto, or what had happened in the courtroom, or anything of substance. She checked her desk to see if there were any messages from the Order. She didn’t expect to see anything. Even before yesterday, they hadn’t been exactly communicative and the protean charm wouldn’t let Molly yell at her the way a Howler would. Under the top sheet, however, she found a short note in Molly’s neat handwriting. _Please look for more information on RL._

Her hands started to shake.

“Are you okay?” Draco asked. She passed the page of parchment over and he read it. When he met her eyes, his brow has creased into utter puzzlement. “That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Hermione said.

“Maybe they haven’t gotten the papers yet,” Draco said.

“Maybe,” Hermione said. She sank into a chair as her gut churned. It wasn’t what she had expected and she didn’t understand it. Everything was topsy-turvy and no one was acting predictably. She felt Draco Malfoy brush his fingers over her shoulder in a silent question and she began to laugh, half-hysterically. Another person who wasn’t behaving the way he should. Next thing she knew, Yaxley would want to set up a May Pole and dance around it crowning people with flowers. That thought sent her into even louder whoops and she doubled over as the laughter alchemized to equally hysterical sobs.

“It’ll be okay,” Draco said, the emptiest, falsest reassurance ever. She looked up at him and he shrugged. “Or it won’t,” he said. “But at least she didn’t say she hated you and that you should go to hell.”

“Give it time,” Hermione said.

“Change your shirt,” he said. “Let’s go.”

She did and they did and the museum – more of a hole in the wall, Hermione thought with a sniff and a thought spared for the National Gallery – had brought white walls and three rooms with sniffing, smug portraits, benches, and a slim witch at the front door in expensive robes and a severe bun who sniffed at them with the same contempt as the old ladies in the pictures even as she passed over a flyer telling them about the artist and the exhibit. 

Draco shoved the flyer into a pocket and snickered as he led her back through the foyer, through a larger room, and into a side room that seemed to be given over to the painter’s brief modern period and had far fewer visitors than even the nearly empty main room. Hermione sat on a bench in a dim corner and sighed. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“That,” he said, “is the little sister of a girl in our year.”

“That sniffing bunhead?” Hermione asked.

Draco nodded. “She had a crush on me,” he said. “Of course, all the girls except you did.”

Hermione snorted at the improbability of that.

“They did,” he insisted. He poked a finger into her thigh. “I am very handsome.”

“And very rich,” she said.

“And good at Quidditch,” he agreed. “That you were impervious to my charm doesn’t mean everyone was.”

“You were a shitehead,” she said.

He pouted – actually pouted – with his lower lip thrust out so dramatically she began to laugh. “Draco,” she said. “You look five when you do that.”

He laced his fingers through hers. “Made you laugh,” he said. 

“You did,” she agreed. She leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. The portrait across from their bench looked like a third-rate art student had tried to mimic Picasso, which would be bad enough in Muggle art, but the magical figure was trying without much luck to rearrange himself back into a coherent whole. 

“My transfiguration teacher,” the plaque beside the picture read. 

“You could help,” the painting said. He’d managed to find his mouth and slapped it back onto his face, but his one eye was still on a hand. 

“I doubt I could do much,” Hermione said.

“People always underestimate what good they can do,” the painting said right before his mouth fell off his face again, down to the edge of the frame, and he became preoccupied with groping around to find it.

Hermione watched in horrified, tired fascination while Draco pulled the flyer out of his pocket and began to read the predictably dull artist’s statement. He read snippets of it out loud in a ponderous, exaggerated voice. “…_the relationship between postmodern discourse and the banality of evil… orderly narratives of rebirth… viewer is left with insight into the fiery outpost of future possibilities.” _He made a face. “This is utter drivel.”

Hermione, however, sat up and looked at him. “Read it again,” she ordered.

“It’s crap,” he said. “The guy had to make something up to sound important because _I like messing around with paint_ isn’t good enough.” 

She leveled a long, annoyed look at him and he sighed and read the whole thing again. 

“Is there any kind of reception?” Hermione asked. “A meet the artist kind of thing?”

Draco turned the paper over. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “With wine and cheese, God help us all.”

“We’re going,” she said.

“What?” Draco sounded incredulous. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“But we’re using polyjuice,” she said. 

“Why?” he demanded.

“Trust me,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Salazars who beta read this for me!


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione shook her hand after copying out yet another memo about the Lestrange brothers. Both, it would seem, had become what the memo writer called ‘unstable’ after the fall of Voldemort and were prone to ranting at length about power, gods, and immortality. They were considered an embarrassment.

_Now_ they were unstable. Hermione snorted at that distinction and cast the protean charm. The bastards had always been unstable. It was just that now they were unstable in ways the powers that be didn’t like. Yaxley didn’t seem to care for followers who considered his predecessor a god. Not that she blamed him. He had to be clever enough to realize that made him the heretic.

Draco knocked at her door and opened it without waiting for her to say anything. “You should lock that,” he said. 

She shrugged. She spent too much time hoping one of the local degenerates would try to push his – or her – way into her room. It would give her an excuse. She wanted to have an excuse. “Did you get it?” she asked.

He held up a bottle neatly labeled ‘Polyjuice Potion.’ “Fortunately for you and your nefarious and mysterious schemes, my mother was always a dab hand at potions and she likes to keep a good supply around.”

“Don’t suppose she has any Felix,” Hermione muttered. “I’d like a little deux ex machina.”

Draco just looked at her and she sighed. “No luck in a bottle, then?”

“If we had any,” he said, “do you think we’d be stuck with that Ministry lot coming and going at all hours?”

That was a fair point, so she pulled out the hair she’d collected on the way home from the gallery. A quick bump into one witch, a side trip into a Muggle bookstore, and she had the means to copy two forgettable people: a short, mousy brown hair from a man who had been quarreling with his daughter in the bookstore and a long, blonde one from a witch with a hooked nose and bright pink fingernails. Draco had obligingly dressed in generic clothing and it was odd to see him in a pair of dull khaki trousers and an inexpensive oxford. He’d added a floppy hat that dropped over one eye to give himself a bit of proper wizarding color, and he’d tucked a green silk pocket square into the oxford where it peeked out, wholly wrong and hilarious.

“You look ridiculous,” she said.

He eyed her. “So says the tramp with no taste.”

Hermione’s cheap robes looked like what every other witch had been wearing when they’d last gone out and she sniffed. She’d had to leave the bracelet off. No one who could afford diamonds like that would be caught in this. Her wrist felt naked without it. “I’m not a tramp,” she said. 

He handed over a witch’s pointed hat with an enameled pin of a pink lotus flower jammed into the rim. The weight of the flower dragged the velveteen down and left the whole thing lopsided. She put it on. “No taste, however, I will grant you.”

“Drink up here or outside?” he asked.

“On the edge of the property, I think,” she said. 

They wrapped themselves in black outer robes so voluminous the whole of their costumes were hidden, and slipped away, through her door, down the corridor, and out a side door. Hermione held her breath the whole of the walk along the gravel path. Trying to explain this would be difficult. Fortune favored the foolish, however, and for all that the Manor seemed to be an endless stream of Death Eaters and sycophants most days, this night there was no one. They shed the robes once they were clear, Draco mixed up the hairs, and they each downed the potion, tucking leftovers into pockets in case they needed more.

Draco shifted and was pulled into a hideous transformation that left him bland and forgettable. Where a young aristocrat in a costume had been now stood a dull man no one would remember. She’d done an excellent job with that hair selection.

“I prefer you brunette,” he said.

“Is it that bad?” she asked. She touched the bleached blonde hair, suddenly self-conscious. No one likes to be plain.

“Common,” was all he said as he gently pulled her hand down and laced his fingers through hers. “Not every witch can be quite as extraordinary as Hermione Granger.”

Her fingers clenched around his. “I’m not extraordinary,” she said.

He just looked at her for a long moment, shrugged, and then they apparated to the gallery. She pulled the brochure with information about the reception out of a pocket and they walked in.

Astoria Greengrass still manned the front desk. Her mouth still pursed into a disapproving frown when she saw them. This time, however, it was just dismissal of their unimportance. She didn’t have opinions about these two strangers the way she might have had about Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. A table had been set out and covered with a cloth that was probably supposed to look fancy. Already used to the casual elegance of Malfoy Manor, Hermione thought it looked like the sort of thing you saw at not very nice weddings. Who knew the wizarding world had embraced the polyester table linen?

“Food,” she said. 

She could see contemptuous way Draco eyed the plates laden with predictable starters. Giant bowls of shrimp sat floating in larger bowls of slowly melting ice. Sweaty cheese huddled next to crackers. There was hummus. Another table in the next room had been set up as a makeshift bar and she could see boxes of white wine next to rows of glasses. “It looks great,” she said and hoped he’d pick up the warning. “Maybe you could get me some of that wine while I look at some of the work?”

“You want a headache tomorrow that badly?” he asked under his breath, but he went and did as she asked and she pretended to be fascinated by the art and strained her ear to listen.

“ - this is so brilliant – “

“ – incorporates modern Muggle ideas into – “

“ – just stabbed him right in the back, tossed him into Azkaban. And she’d been practically engaged to his little brother too.”

There. That was what she had come for. Hermione took a casual step closer to that speaker and leaned in toward the painting that left her in front of. It was terrible.

“Well, he was a fool. No idea what possessed him.” She had no idea who the speaker was but, with the way the resistance had used Polyuice since the Battle of Hogwarts, that didn’t mean anything. It could be Harry. It could be a total stranger. “But she did what she had to.”

“To save her own neck.”

“Whatever.” The man, whoever he was, took a drink from his wine glass. “Who cares what Potter’s Mudblood does?”

Well, it wasn’t Harry.

“What we need is to get more people organized. If we can get the ordinary people in the streets to understand that Yaxley and his crew are slowly chipping away at their rights. The people need to rise.”

“The people are complacent.”

“And that’s the problem.”

“Your drink, madam.”

She turned to take the glass of wine from Draco and found a somewhat shaky smile. _Potter’s Mudblood. _Wasn’t that nice? Wasn’t that just _precious_? She took a long swallow of the wine and almost spit it out. It managed to be too sweet and too bitter at the same time. She looked at the glass. It was nearly the color of urine. How appropriate.

“I did warn you,” Draco said. 

“Is this your first time at an opening?” The man who’d called her Potter’s Mudblood had approached them with a genial smile on his face. “The wine’s never anything to write home about, but the cheese is usually decent.” He put his hand out. “John Smythe.”

That was a pseudonym if she’d ever heard one.

“Anne Jones,” she said, picking an equally bland name. His brows went up and he began to look interested.

“Well, Anne,” he said, “What drew you to this little event?”

“I was very interested in the artist’s statement about the banality of evil and the fiery possibility of orderly narratives of rebirth,” she said. She paused, decided to risk it, and said, “Has he ever done work with the classical symbolism of the phoenix?”

‘John’ took a long sip of the bad wine to give himself time to answer. “He might have,” he said. “Nothing up here, of course. A dangerous symbol these days.”

“When brave men are afraid to speak truth, you know the worst is at hand,” she said.

And just like that, she was in. She didn’t think too highly of their security. Moody would have nearly foamed at the mouth with how quickly this little rebel told her where they met, and how often, and what their goals were. He drew her – Draco too – into a smaller clutch of gallery-goers in the back room. “We can speak more freely here,” he said, as if he hadn’t been speaking too damn freely already.

They didn’t support Percy – they all thought he’d been a fool – but they didn’t put much faith in Harry either. “If Potter was going to do something, he’d have done it by now,” one of them said, dismissing the years of raids and battles they’d fought. He hadn’t won anything recently so they were moving on. So much for the Chosen One.

She’d never thought she’d see the day where a loon like Rodolphus Lestrange had more faith in Harry Potter than the side of the Light though, given the way people had turned on him over and over again in school she shouldn’t be surprised.

Didn’t matter. She’d find a way. She would, and Draco, and Narcissa, and even Rodolphus if that was what it took. Molly and Moody too.

Not Amycus Carrow, though. She drew a line there. That torturing bitch could die in a fire.

She looked back down at the brochure while one of the men talked very earnestly about fascism and the free press and how could people be so blind. It wasn’t that she didn’t agree with him. She was already planning how to tell Molly and the rest about this little independent group so they could figure out how to best use them. Use them was the key. These people weren’t thinkers. They weren’t even doers. They might gather like this, they might whisper their sedition to one another over cocktails, but they wouldn’t have the courage to do anything on their own.

That didn’t mean they wouldn’t do what they were told so long as the information was slipped to them the right way.

_Doreen Ficus_, the biography read. _Doreen has been fascinated by the ephemeral nature of existence since the first wizarding war, when she began to paint. Much of her work can be seen as an examination of the outsider in our society and the eternal search for belonging. Unmarried, she lives with her many cats in Little Whinging. _

“Is she here?” Hermione asked, interrupting what had surely been a fascinating take on authoritarianism and privilege. The man who had been talking gave her a most put out look and she smiled apologetically. “The artist, I mean. I’d love to meet her.”

“No,” he said. “She has trouble getting around wizarding spaces without help.

“Oh?” Draco asked. He took the brochure from Hermione and skimmed it. “Was she crippled in the war?”

One of the men sniggered. “You could say she’s crippled,” he said.

“That’s too bad,” Hermione said.

Draco tapped her on the shoulder. “We should get going, Anne,” he said. “Time’s running out.”

She cast a quick tempus charm and saw he was right. It was leave or down more polyjuice, and she didn’t think she’d learn anything more from this bunch. It was enough to know they existed. Enough to know they’d already condemned her.

“It was great meeting you all,” she said. She put her best stupid smile on and, from how strained their answering smiles were, it was quite stupid indeed. “I’ll see you at the next opening?”

They nodded and said all the right, banal things, and then she and Draco escaped back into the street, back onto the Malfoy property, back into their robes right as the polyjuice wore off and they became themselves again.

“I want a drink,” she said.

He let out a snort. “Not the swill they were serving, I hope.”

“No,” she said. “Let’s go get really pissed on the good stuff.”

“My kind of girl,” he said, and they walked through the darkness, over the gracious lawns and past the vain roses, toward the welcoming lights of the Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to salazars for her tireless work finding my typos. Without her as a beta reader this would be a more painful read.


	24. Chapter 24

“Any news?”

Hermione shook her head and tried not to sag. Every day that went by without a personal greeting from the Order chipped away a little more at her sense that this was worth it. Percy sat in prison, Yaxley sat in the Ministry, and Ron couldn’t even send her a hullo. Weeks. It had been weeks since she’d gotten a message back more than, “Got it. Thanks.” No one had ever acknowledged what she’d done in court. They hadn’t said they were angry. They hadn’t said they understood. It was just silence. Silence was somehow worse. Silence felt like a punishment.

Draco rested his hands on her shoulders and began to rub, tentatively at first, then, when she didn’t twitch away, with more assurance. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said. “They just don’t want to expose you.”

“Don’t want to turn off their information faucet, you mean,” she said. Her hand still hurt from that day’s copying. She stole memos. She copied them. She put them back. It felt so pointless. “Even if they aren’t doing anything.”

“I’m sure they’re doing something,” Draco said. He slid his thumbs up the sides of her neck and pressed in, working out the ache she felt from bending over her desk so long. 

“Spray painting phoenixes on abandoned buildings,” Hermione said. “Whee.”

His hands stilled briefly in their massage and she summoned an apology. This was hard on him too. “I’m just in a mood,” she said. “The dinner tonight.”

He began to rub again until she pushed him away and stood up. They knew the routine by now. He’d slip the papers back, she’d get dressed for another meal where, on a good night, Lucius Malfoy would make casual slurs about Muggle-borns she would ignore while he drank too much and, on a bad night, Death Eaters would join them as if they were welcome guests. 

Tonight would be a bad night.

The wine was better on the nights they weren’t there. The quality of the food went down too. Narcissa got her jabs in where she could. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said. 

He nodded, took the results of the day’s spying, and disappeared. She curled her lip at the parchment in front of her and put it away. The protean charm wasn’t _that _hard. Yes, it was N.E.W.T. level material, but Ron wasn’t stupid. He could do it if he wanted to.

Those angry thoughts kept cycling through her head as she put on that evening’s costume. Another gracious set of robes. Another pair of heels. More jewellery. Pity she’d never really cared about clothes and makeup or any of that. She was living some other girl’s dream, with a wardrobe that never ended and anything money could buy that she wanted laid at her feet and all she wanted was for it to be over.

When she reached the small room where the Death Eaters and their evil friends had gathered before the dinner, pretending to be civilized people who chatted over drinks instead of murderous thugs, Draco took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You look beautiful,” he said. “As always.”

“Young love is always such a lovely thing to see.”

Hermione turned and found a smile deep in her lying heart to display to Antonin Dolohov. “I hope we aren’t too unpleasant to be around,” she said. “I always used to hate the way some of my friends just fawned on each other in public.”

“Some things are best left for the private domain,” Narcissa said. She handed a glass of champagne over to Hermione and, with a single sip, she knew why. This wasn’t the weaker vintage she’d brought out for her unwelcome guests.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. She took another sip.

“You have always been a paragon of discretion,” Narcissa said. “Only fools wear their hearts on their sleeves.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure, but she thought that might be a compliment. Combined with the good champagne it made for the heady realization that, somehow, Narcissa Malfoy had decided she liked her. Life was very strange.

“Well,” Dolohov said, “some of your friends were always a bit… passionate.”

Draco positioned himself slightly behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist in a manner that erred more on the side of excessive public display but he was probably afraid she’d hex the man in front of her. It was certainly tempting.

“We were all so young,” Hermione said. “And there was the war.”

“Poor Harry Potter,” Dolohov said. “Still fighting it in his head.”

That was an opening and she sighed and looked down into her wine. “It’s hard for Harry,” she said softly. “You have to understand, that family….” She trailed off as if she couldn’t find the words and, in truth, Harry’s Muggle relatives made her so angry she wanted to see them dead. “Not all Muggles are like that,” she said. “My own parents were… but they starved him, locked him in his room, put bars on the window.”

One of the sycophants whose name she’d never caught looked horrified but also hungry for more. “That poor boy,” she said, pressing her hand to her chest.

“And Dumbledore,” Hermione said, trying to make it sound as if the words were being pulled from her with the greatest of difficulty. In her mind, she apologized to the man for what she was about to do. _It’s for the greater good,_ she told him. “He spent years teaching him his whole purpose for being was to fight Dark wizards.”

“And then the Dark wizard was dead,” Dolohov said musingly. “It must have been hard for him.”

“Hard for everyone,” Hermione said. Hard for Luna, who’d retreated to the boundaries of madness. Hard for George, who couldn’t look in mirrors still. Hard for her, standing here. “Change always is.”

“A man adrift,” Dolohov said. “It is an interesting way to look at him. It’s so easy to see Potter as just a fanatic, you know. You paint him as tragic.”

“Moody’s a bit of a fanatic,” Hermione admitted. That made the assembled group laugh with far more comfortable cocktail party amusement. They’d all met the Auror with his magical eye and his paranoia. “Harry,” she said. She swirled the wine in her wine glass and counted to five so it would sound as though she were struggling to force the words out. “He’s just a lost soul.”

“Some people need demons,” Draco said. The words were very soft and far too serious. “If there isn’t one to be found, they’ll make one.”

“But you’re here now,” said the woman who’d loved the tragedy of Harry Potter. “Away from all that madness.”

Hermione flashed her a sad smile. “I do worry, though,” she said.

“Because you are a good friend,” Dolohov said. “And loyal, but also an intelligent young woman, the example of what a Muggle-born can be.”

“Here, here,” said the woman, and raised her glass toward Hermione or, more likely, to the glory of her own tolerance. The scar on Hermione’s shoulder itched under the force of Dolohov’s smile. He raised his own glass toward her, the smallest of gesture, and she could almost feel the tissue burn. 

She looked down. “I’m nothing special,” she said.

“You are to me,” Draco said, and then Narcissa was waving them toward the dining room and dinner. Part one of the excruciating evening over, part two to come. 

Rodolphus Lestrange stopped her before she could go all the way in. “You need to believe,” he said. He’d set his hand on her sleeve and it was all she could do not to twitch it off. His eyes shone with a horrible gleam and she remembered Bellatrix and her fanaticism. “I know it’s hard, but you are the right hand. You are the foundation.”

“She’s trying,” Draco said. “The wheels move slowly.”

That seemed to satisfy him and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “And we must all play our parts.”

By the time Draco pulled her chair out, Hermione had gotten her shaking under control and was able to thank him with a steady voice. Lestrange had snapped back into being a bit odd but not noticeably mad, and he had started arguing with a dull man in faded black about Quidditch and which teams would go all the way this year. The rest of the meal went without any special horrors. The wine was mediocre. The food uninspired. The company appalling. But she didn’t end up dueling anyone. She didn’t end up bleeding. She didn’t end up in the garden trying to get quietly drunk, drunker, drunkest.

She figured, all in all, it was a win.

Draco fawned on her, which had gone from grating to amusing, especially when she caught his eye and he squinted with a tiny conspiratorial gleam she knew was just for her. _They’re all so stupid,_ that gleam said. It pulled her into a private circle with him and she was content to rest there and smile back.

They were, after all, supposed to look like young fools in love. You were supposed to smile at that person.

When it was all over and he walked her back to her room she even had a slight spring to her step as he hooked a hand over her elbow and whispered nasty observations about some of the Death Eaters in her ear. Draco Malfoy was a bully, all right, and had a vicious eye for human weaknesses. She’d hated it when he’d been calling her Mudblood and making fun of her teeth. It was hard not to appreciate the same quality when he was pointing out that the Carrows had identical moles with matching hairs on their jaws, or that Dolohov still checked which knife Lucius used before he picked up his own utensil. 

“You are such a jerk,” she said as they flopped down in her room, free at last. She pried her shoes off with her toes. “Tell me again why I like you?”

“You like me?” Draco asked. He picked her foot up and began to press his thumbs into the soles, rubbing away the pain of heels. “I can only assume it’s because you’ve had so much wine you’ve lost control of your wits.”

“With what she served tonight?” Hermione said. “Hah.”

“Then war has addled your judgement,” Draco said. “No other explanation.”

She grunted at that and _accioed_ over the parchment from her desk. It wasn’t that she expected Molly to have sent her anything and, honestly, if she did it would just be a request for more information on this Death Eater, or more information on that Death Eater. Endless requests for information, none of which seemed to result in any actions on their part.

She knew government was weighed down by bureaucracy to the point of inaction, but she hadn’t expected a rebellion to be. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Right there.” She wiggled her foot in his hand and he laughed but did as she asked and pressed his thumbs harder into the part of the arch that hurt the most.

She unfolded the paper.

She read it.

She read it again.

She pulled her foot out of Draco Malfoy’s lap and curled as tightly as she could around herself to read it a third time. Then she folded it up as carefully as she could and said, “I think I should go to bed now.”

Maybe it was the tears streaming down her face that alerted him. It was a hard change of mood to miss. He pushed himself forward on his knees and reached over to take the paper from her hand. She didn’t stop him. She wasn’t sure she could.

He opened it and began to read.

_Hermione. I am sorry to be the one to send you this news. I asked Ronald to do it and he refused. I believe he is ashamed now that he knows the whole story but what is done is done. _

_The night he heard you had testified against Percy he drank to excess. He and Gabrielle have become very close and he spent the night with her and a pregnancy has resulted. He has decided to do the right thing and marry her so his child will not grow up a bastard. Obviously, this means the end of your relationship._

_I am very sorry. I thought of you as a daughter._

_Please forward any information you find on the Carrows and how much trust Y places in them._

_Destroy this note._

He folded it up with movements as precise and careful as hers had been. “Hermione,” he said.  
  
“Don’t talk,” she said. It would make it worse. She didn’t want to hear that he was sorry, or that Ron was a jackass, or that Molly was lying through her lower-class teeth about thinking of her as a daughter. She didn’t want him to say any of that, no matter how true it was. She just wanted to cry.

So she did.

He held onto her, he burned the note, he transfigured the ashes and set a tiny glass owl on the floor in front of her. All she did was cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to Salazars for beta reading. She is a gem.


	25. Chapter 25

“Everything is fine,” Hermione said. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail she’d tied it into and tried to smooth it back into an even tighter, even smoother knot. She could get this hair out of her face and under control because she couldn’t work with it just hanging there and she needed to work. She needed to copy these files on the Carrows. She would copy every word and she would send them off to Molly and she would do what she was here for and then maybe she would have worth. Then maybe she would prove herself, redeem herself, justify herself.

Draco set a hand on her shoulder. He’d been hovering. He’d gone with her to get the day’s papers, then stood over her and the way his eyes creased together into worry made her snappish and irritable. She didn’t need someone watching her. She didn’t need someone worrying about her. She was fine. _Fine_. She was Hermione Granger, the smartest witch of their year, and she could do things. That’s what Harry had called her. He’d defended her that way. _Hermione is the smartest witch of our year_, he’d said. _And she’s a Muggle-born_. And he’d trusted her to come over to this hell, to go through with this insane Death Eater trade, and find intelligence for the Order and she was going to keep up her end of that deal. She was going to find things and do things and Ron would be sorry he’d ever doubted her. He’d look at his beautiful, blonde, Veela wife with her perfect, smooth hair and their perfect, Veela baby and he’d realize he’d made a horrible mistake and then –

She would get this hair of hers under control. She tried pulling it back again.

“Let me,” Draco said. He took the hair out of her hands with so much care she wasn’t able to stop him. He had some sort of spell in his fingers, some magic she didn’t know, and she sat stiff and angry as he gently coaxed her curls back into an immaculate ponytail and slipped the band over them. That done, he twisted one spiral around a finger. “I do love your hair,” he said. “I think I’d sell my soul for this much life.”

“It’s just hair,” she said.

“You try having fine, thin hair and see how you like it,” he said. She turned and glanced up at him. That fine, thin hair had fallen into his face and he blinked at her through a veil of blond. “You can’t do anything with it,” he said.

“Blond is more attractive,” she said.

His mouth quirked up. “Well, I am glad you’ve come to see my aesthetic value at last.”

She could feel the heat rising into her cheeks. She hadn’t been thinking of him at all.

“Of course,” he went on, “I do burn. Malfoy family curse. I think I knew how to do sun charms before I could fly.”

She scowled at him. “And I was thinking,” he said. “We should go out.”

“What?”

“You aren’t a prisoner,” he said. He settled one hand on her shoulder and continued playing with a curl with the other. He wrapped it around a finger, then unwound it. “Sitting around here, just copying these things, hiding away from the endless trooping visitors, that’s not good.” She knew she looked sullen and petulant and all sorts of resentful but she set her mouth against his idea anyway. He ignored that. “And I want to get out,” he said. “Go dancing, maybe. Have a drink.”

“It’s not a date,” she said. She knew she was capitulating but she wanted to make that clear. She was not going to _date_ Draco Malfoy.

“Of course not,” he said. He reached over and gathered up all the originals so he could return them. “I only go on dates with women who ask me out. I’m much too afraid of rejection to make the first move.”

She snorted. “So, Pansy asked you to the Yule Ball?”

He’d tucked all the papers into a folder and turned to go but stopped at the door at that. “Would you believe me if I said yes?” he asked.

She sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. She’d probably believe anything he told her.

“She cornered me under a portrait of angry unicorns who looked like they were about to run some princess through with their horns and informed me we would be going together,” he said. “I’m not sure it counts as being asked, but -.”

“Figures,” Hermione said. “Dinner?”

“If we eat with my parents, we might lose the will to live,” he said, “much less the will to go out to a club.”

She knew that meant there would be guests tonight and the plan to escape into someplace loud with alcohol began to seem much more appealing. “Who?” she asked.

“Lord Yaxley himself,” Draco said. “There’s a dress code so look hot.” Then he was gone and she twisted her mouth into what tried to be a frown but kept turning into a rueful grin instead. Look hot, he told her. She wondered what she’d find in the depths of her wardrobe that counted. Was it creepy to try to look hot using clothing a man’s mother had purchased for you?

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione admired herself, twisting first to the left, then the right. It might indeed be creepy to make yourself sexually attractive via clothes a Death Eater’s wife - and your date’s mother – had bought, but she couldn’t deny it had worked. She might not be a blonde wisp of a Veela but she wasn’t an eyesore either. Black, black, and more black, everything on top as tight as she could make it, the skirts below twirling out in a storm of motion, desperate to escape the bondage of the laced corset. The diamonds at her wrist sparkled with the only color. 

She’d picked flat shoes. She planned to fling herself into movement to escape it all and heels might look good but they hurt and she had enough pain to not need stilettos contributing more.

Narcissa smiled her politician’s smile at the doorway and Hermione knew it wasn’t fair but she wanted to rake her nails across the woman’s face and scrape away every bit of her hypocrisy. The accusation _you’ve always despised me, and you would have forever, but now I’m useful to you so you’ll trade me for your son’s freedom_ sat on the edge of her tongue until she swallowed it away, half choking, and smiled back. It wasn’t Narcissa’s fault she was on edge. Narcissa wasn’t the one who’d traded her away.

“Have fun tonight,” Narcissa said. “Be careful.”

“You too,” Hermione said automatically, then spit out a laugh. Be careful might be good advice, but no one had fun around Yaxley. 

“They’re always watching,” Narcissa said a bit obliquely, then stepped back as Draco rounded the corner.

He was in black too – the Death Eater dress code – but he’d designed his own outfit to disappear into a crowd while she wanted to stand out. You hate me, she thought off toward Ron. Fine. I’ll give you something to hate. She smiled slowly at Draco Malfoy, letting lips she’d painted as red as every wound she’d ever gotten on the battlefield curl up. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Let’s go,” he said but she’d seen his eyes flicker with appreciation before he’d pushed it back down. She hooked her arm through his and smiled. Cormac had wanted her. He’d been stupider than any rock, but he’d wanted her. Viktor wanted her still. He’d written letters past the point of safety, past the point she’d begged him to take care of himself and not get caught talking to a Phoenix.

Ron wasn’t the only bird in the sky.

“Side along me,” she said.

Draco quirked a brow up but nodded to his mother, walked with her out to the front drive, then said, “Hold on,” and they were gone, sucked into a void where you saw nothing, felt nothing, needed nothing.

They fell back into reality outside a club off to one side of Diagon Alley. The door sat, tucked away between a shop selling pet supplies and a used broom shop. Hermione was quite sure the club itself used enough illegal extension charms it shimmered in constant danger of collapse.

If you were in a building charmed to exist via extension magic, and the magic failed, what happened to you?

If it happened, she supposed she would find out.

The bar was loud, filled with people, and pulsing with energy. Writhing bodies danced under magically changing lights and more pressed up against the walls, watching. The crowd at the bar was so thick every witch and wizard in London had to be here. She pushed her way through with a jab of an elbow here and hip thrust there and smiled up at the barkeep. “Fire whiskey,” she said. “Neat.”

He quirked an eyebrow up at that but poured her the shot without question. 

“I’ll have the same whiskey but add ice and water to mine,” Draco said. “Malfoy tab.”

“Done,” the barkeep said, and by the time he returned with Draco’s drink, Hermione was pushing her empty shot back toward him. “Another?” he asked.

She downed that, and then a third, and then strode her way back out toward the dance floor, Draco in her wake. The liquor had started to hit her and the burn it had left in a trail down her throat had turned to a warm glow. Screw this. Screw everyone. Screw everything. She could do what she wanted and she would.

Draco set a hand on her lower back in what might have been caution but it was too late. Rodolphus Lestrange had already seen her and was bowing over her hand with a courtly grace borne of an earlier era. His deranged, blood-purist parents had probably raised him on a diet of bowdlerized chivalry leaving him thinking this kind of absurdity was polite. “Hermione Granger,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “How good to see you.”

She was going to shake her hand free of his polluted, polluting touch when an idea stuck her. She moved in closer so her lips were at his ear and tried not to recoil from the too heavy scent of cologne. Subtlety was not Rodolphus’ strength in any area including grooming. “Free Percy,” she said in what, thanks to the pounding noise didn’t even approach a whisper. She didn’t care if it was reckless or stupid. Sometimes you had to act. “You want to help Harry? Prove it. Get Percy Weasley out.”

When she pulled away from him she half-expected to see him grinning, delighted to have caught her in a trap. He was delighted all right, but her fear he’d turn on her became fear he’d fall at her feet in ecstasy because he had a task. He grabbed her and pressed his damp mouth first to one cheek and then the other. “I won’t fail,” he said. “We must put the Chosen One into place.”

“And he needs his loyal friends,” she said. She meant Percy but the words were no sooner out of her mouth than she saw Rodolphus assumed something different.

“And he shall have them,” the man said. He seemed to consider kissing her again, then decided against it in favor of another bow over her hand followed by a dramatic twirl and exit.

She blinked and stared after him.

“That was interesting,” Draco said. He’d moved up closer and pressed the long line of his Seeker’s body against hers. Where Rodolphus bathed in scent, Draco had put on just enough that only a hint of it brushed against her senses as he moved his mouth to her ear. “Care to explain?”

She turned and smiled up at him. “Dance with me,” she said. “We came here to dance.”

His expression had the careful blankness of a man who’d seen too many unstable people, but he nodded and set his drink on a ledge and let her pull him to the center of the dance floor. Neither of them were good dancers. She hadn’t been the kind of child who got picked to be Clara in the Nutcracker and whatever dancing lessons he’d had had probably focused more attention on flattering old ladies with a graceful waltz than a gyrating, sexualized pantomime. She didn’t care. She flung an arm around his neck and pulled herself against him and laughed with the release of it all. Draco Malfoy. Who would have thought it?

The music seemed to time itself to the beating of her heart and the pounding of her veins and she couldn’t hear anything but that, and couldn’t think, and couldn’t feel and Draco Malfoy was looking down at her with shuttered eyes as they swayed together and every angled line of his face had become beautiful. She lifted a hand and ran it along a cheekbone, then down the edge of one side of his jaw, and stopped with her finger on his pointed chin. Too thin. Too pale. Too so many things and yet also somehow perfect. She pushed herself up onto her toes and brushed her nose against his before she kissed him. On a face that sharp and hard you wouldn’t expect lips to be soft but they were. They were soft and tasted of the same whiskey she’d downed and they parted ever so slightly under her mouth.

Then he wrenched himself away and stood, staring at her and breathing hard for a long moment before he turned on one heel and followed where Rodolphus had gone, out the door, away from the club, away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Salazars for beta reading for me.


	26. Chapter 26

Hermione realized how very drunk she was when she tried to push her way through the crowd after Draco. The floor swooped and then fell away again, and she staggered a bit. A wizard she didn’t know in a tight blue velvet suit and a pair of rabbit ears pretended to try to steady her so he could grab a handful of her arse. She swung an elbow toward his face and missed, then fell into him and cursed herself as she ended up giving him even more of a taste than he’d tried to take. She did manage to grind her foot into his toes as she pretended to apologize for her half-fall. “It’s so loud,” she yelled into his ear, managing to wordlessly augment the volume so he’d end up half-deafened. “I’m going to go out and get some air.”

A braver man might have followed her but, despite the bad judgment he’d already displayed, he was smart enough to just step back and tell her to be careful.

She found Draco outside. He’d lit a Muggle cigarette, of all things, and was leaning against a brick wall with a painted advertisement for House Elf services. His back was to the club and as she watched he took a look drag then dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel before slamming the side of his fist into the wall.

“That’ll break your hand,” she said. She took an unsteady step toward him and he turned, his face blank. “You okay?”

“I’m better than you are,” he said. He tossed her a vial that she scrambled to catch with no success. It landed, unbroken, on the cobblestones and he said in a voice like ice. “Sobriety potion. Take it.” 

“I don’t think,” she started but even after three whiskeys she could read at least part of the look on his face. Charming, Draco Malfoy could be, and he’d been more than kind to her, but he’d also seen enough atrocities to harden parts of his soul and that was the part that looked out at her. She didn’t want to fight with that part drunk but she made a show of wandlessly and wordlessly accioing the vial back to her hand. He quirked a brow at the display but didn’t say anything until she’d pulled the cork free and slammed the contents down.

Why did sobriety potion taste like horse piss, was her first thought as clarity burned back through her mind. That was rapidly followed by a sinking feeling of _oh shite._

“Feeling better, are we?” Draco asked. “Good. Let’s go. Can you manage to apparate yourself home?”

“Draco,” she said, setting a hand on his arm. She wanted to apologize, or explain, or ask what in the hell had made him storm off. 

He plucked the hand off his sleeve with a show of fastidious distaste. “I am not your palate cleanser,” he said. “Do not presume I’m interested in some one night stand with you, Granger, especially if you’re pissed off that Weasley couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

She opened her mouth to say that wasn’t what she’d been thinking at all and then decided fuck it. Fuck him. If that’s what he wanted to think of her, then fine. “My apologies,” she said. “If it’s quite all right with you, I think I’m done here. We’ve been seen and now I think it’s time to go back to your house.”

“I agree,” he said.

They apparated back to Malfoy Manor separately and she nodded at him with every ounce of British brisk courtesy she could manage before telling him she could find her way back to her room on her own and taking off.

She heard what sounded like a fist slamming into a wall and turned, shocked, but Draco didn’t even glance up at her. He was fussing with a painting of flowers that wasn’t level enough for his taste. 

She made it all the way back to her room before tears of rage or humiliation or grief began to leak out of her eyes. She ignored them as resolutely as she had ignored so many things in her time in the wizarding world, took a quick shower, and tucked herself into bed. At least she had set crazy Rodolphus on a path to get Percy free. She would call it a good night for that alone.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Draco pulled her chair out with precision so sharp it almost cut. “Thank you,” she said, just as flawlessly courteous, and they played that little game where the man slid the chair back in while the woman balanced her weight on her feet while pretending to sit so he could move the chair along the floor easily. Being female required strength at the strangest times. 

That done, she smoothed the napkin over her lap and folded her hands neatly and put a smile on her face that would have done Narcissa proud. It probably did, as the woman was wearing a nearly identical one. It had been a long week of very polite smiles and chillingly perfect assistance as she copied out stolen documents and took walks with her supposed love in very public parts of the Malfoy estate. She’d praised the fading roses. She’d admired the peacocks. She’d done everything shy of picking up a rock and hurling it at Draco Malfoy’s head and now it was time to put their little performance on for unwelcome Ministry guests.

Alecto Carrow slouched in her seat. Her yellowing teeth gnawed at a chapped lip and her eyes darted around the other guests as if she were excited about what was to come. Amycus, mercifully, was absent. Yaxley was late. Antonin Dolohov, however, set a packet of folded papers next to his plate and poured himself wine. “Narcissa,” he said warmly, “You always have the best vintages.”

Alecto looked at Lucius, already three glasses in, and sniggered. Everyone ignored her. Why she’d been invited was a mystery Hermione would rather not probe. 

“I’m so pleased you enjoy them,” Narcissa said. “Would you like me to forward the name of my sommelier to your own household staff?”

He tilted his head toward her with a dimpling smile. “It’s just me, alas. I’m merely a working stiff with no time for the gracious things in life.”

Lucius let out a snort that turned into a cough. “I’m surprised you have anything left,” Alecto said. 

“The cellars of Malfoy Manor are not insubstantial,” Narcissa said. “Things do get lost down there, though. I once found a room of old wine that Abraxas had put away, all forgotten so long it had gone to vinegar.”

“Pity,” Dolohov said.

“Old things do go bad,” Narcissa said blandly. “One has to always invest in the new.”

Hermione could feel eyes on her and she kept her smile in place. These dinners were a special sort of hell and she missed the blunt arguing of the Weasley clan. Salads arrived, and, as if lettuce signaled it was time to move forward to another stage in the political jostling, Dolohov chewed one mouthful, swallowed, then unfolded the papers he’d brought with him. “Speaking of new, I was hoping Lord Yaxley would be on time so I could consult with him informally about our newest problem. Did he happen to mention what time he planned to arrive?”

Lucius shrugged, took another sip of wine, then said, “He doesn’t bother to fill me in on his comings and goings.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Narcissa said. “What seems to be the matter? Perhaps dear Alecto could shed some light on the issue.”

That seemed about as unlikely as cats taking up ballroom dancing, but Hermione waited to see how Dolohov would respond. He passed his papers over not to Alecto but Narcissa and she glanced though them. “My,” she said at last. “That’s unfortunate. Do you know how it happened?”

She passed the papers to Alecto who looked at them far too quickly to have read whatever information they held. She must have been satisfied by the pictures because she sneered and said, “That’s what happens when you trust the Ministry.”

“We are the Ministry,” Dolohov said. He reached out and plucked the documents out of her fingers. “Try to remember that, my dear.”

“What happened?” Draco asked when it became obvious no one planned to hand him – or her - the papers.

Dolohov sighed and took another few bites of his salad before answering. Just when Hermione had begun to think he was going to ignore the question, just when she’d started to worry what that might imply, he said, “Someone broke Percy Weasley out of custody and we have no idea who or where the Weasley boy is now.”

“I’d think it was you,” Alecto said, pointing a stubby finger at Hermione. “Draco here keeps you on too long a leash.”

“I don’t leash her at all,” Draco said with somewhat obvious irritation. “That’s something people reserve for animals.” His look made it clear he meant Alecto.

“Alecto,” Dolohov said with a theatrical sigh. “This is an example of your loyalty superseding your sense again. Remember how we talked about that at your last performance review? Miss Granger has been here all week. At least a dozen different people have seen her at random times, walking around. She’s been feeding the peacocks, not fomenting rebellion.”

Alecto scowled and Dolohov sent an apologetic look toward Hermione. “The possibility was raised,” he said. She didn’t believe the regret in his tone for a moment. If she hadn’t become nothing but lies by now she might have sagged in relief that her cover as Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend had held but habit kept her upright. She shrugged as if to say well, naturally. They would have had to consider she was the traitor. She took a bite of salad. She chewed it. The vinaigrette dressing was lovely. If she just kept thinking about salad and peacocks maybe she wouldn’t look much too curious about Percy’s escape.

Rodolphus had pulled it off.

She took another bite. The kitchen had added something different today. Was that artichoke hearts? She poked at her plate. It was. How delightful. She smiled at Dolohov.

Percy was free.

“I said,” Dolohov said, “how does your wedding planning go? We should talk about more pleasant things and, with Yaxley so rudely missing, it’s a bit pointless to go over anyway.”

Hermione supposed it was funny. She could keep her guard up when she learned her attempt to suborn the thick, evil bastard that was Rodolphus Lestrange had worked but ask her about marrying Draco Malfoy and she almost choked on her salad. She began to cough which gave her an excuse to hide her face in her napkin. A white dress. Roses. Peacocks wandering through the guests. The idea was horrible. If fate was at all kind she’d escape this role long before she had to let Draco Malfoy slip a ring on her finger and swear to honor her all of his days.

“Miss Granger and I are in the midst of a bit of a dispute about that,” Draco said into the awkward pause created by her hacking up a bit of tomato. “Weddings are stressful things.”

“Surely not trouble in paradise?” Dolohov asked, all faux concern.

“No,” Narcissa said with a look on her face that one might call annoyed. “The children cannot agree on things like color schemes.” She frowned at Hermione. “As I’ve said before, pale green and silver make for lovely colors, both go with white, and they would be thematic with a Christmas wedding.”

“It just seems very Slytherin,” Hermione said, as if she and Narcissa had ever had a single conversation about this in their lives. 

“But you’ve set a date?” 

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa said. “We haven’t sent out invitations yet – “

“Another thing we disagree on,” Draco muttered.

“ – but the children will be saying their vows on December 24th.”

This was news to Hermione. That was in less than two months. She managed not to choke on her lettuce this time, however. Lucius spit his wine across the table and she and he exchanged looks. For the first time in their lives they were in perfect, horrified accord.

“Do the Malfoys still do permanent bonding vows?” Alecto asked.

“Yes,” Narcissa said, a lift to her brows as though the question were beyond inexplicable. Alecto might have been asking if the Malfoys wore clothing in public or showered regularly. The answer was beyond obvious. The question impertinent. “Always.”

Alecto raised her glass toward Hermione with a gleam in her eye. “Well, then, Miss Mudblood. Congratulations on your social promotion. You’re almost like a real person now.”

Draco stood so rapidly at that his chair fell behind him, pulled his arm back, and slammed a fist into Alecto’s smirking face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salazars for beta reading for me. She is a treasure.
> 
>   
Thank you to slytherinxbadxgirl, wynkenblyken, and no-place-like-it for helping me pin down what time of the year we must be in so I could plan a Christmas wedding.


	27. Chapter 27

As gratifying as it was to see Draco punch the Carrow woman in the face, the evening would go down as one of the worst Hermione had spent at Malfoy Manor. She wanted to scream at Narcissa for trapping her, she wanted to hex Alecto for the smug look on her face even Draco’s fist couldn’t wipe away, she wanted to cry on Draco Malfoy’s shoulder but she knew that would be unwelcome so she held it all in until he was walking her back to her room with instructions from Antonin Dolohov, of all people, to be adult about this and just choose an invitation style. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “Punching her was uncalled for.”

Hermione kept her eyes on the thick carpet and her jaw ground shut as she walked along, on her way to pick out wedding invitations. “I just couldn’t stand her calling you that,” he said after she didn’t respond.

“You’ve used the term often enough,” she said. That was unfair, of course, and he hadn’t used it at all since this adventure had begun. He’d objected to it before now. She didn’t think she felt like being fair, though. Bonded. Forever. To Draco Malfoy. For the good of an Order who’d all but abandoned her. 

For the good of overthrowing pricks like Dolohov.

“There comes a point at which I won’t apologize for things I said at sixteen again,” he said. “These egg shells hurt my feet.”

“I hope you won’t have to -.” 

“I’m sure I will,” he said before she could say suffer, be punished, endure still more on her account.

She pinched her lips together and opened the door to her room. “Let’s pick out invitations,” she said. “We’re getting married in a few short months. They probably need to go out.”

Narcissa, terrifyingly efficient, had had a binder from a print shop left on her desk. God knew when she’d found the time to order that done, or maybe she’d magically moved it there herself. Who could guess. Hermione flipped it open to look at the first page and wanted to be ill. Cherubs – actual cherubs – moved about the parchment holding onto silver and pink hearts. As she watched, one of them hurled a heart at the other and the romance disintegrated into a pitched battle.

Draco leaned over her shoulder. “Pity about the pink,” he said. “Other than that, it seems thematically dead on.”

She snickered without meaning to and turned the page. 

She would not have believed it possible, but the second choice was even worse. Some sort of horrible block printed pattern of black leaves and flowers writhed under her eyes as the sample letters slowly appeared. She didn’t even like the font and all the black made it look like they were planning a funeral.

“No,” Draco said. “Please not that one.”

“I would have assumed purebloods preferred very traditional invitations,” Hermione said. The third page featured a washed-out wizarding photograph of two sample faces. The witch had very high cheekbones and the wizard smiled with too many teeth. She hoped they were models and not an actual couple because they seemed a bit irritated with one another as they each jostled to each get their face more prominently positioned in the photo. Their movement made reading the sample text difficult.

Draco reached over and turned the page. “I think we might have stumbled into my mother’s sense of humor,” he said. 

“The wedding?” Hermione asked but there was no hope behind the words. 

“Maybe we’ll be able to fake the bonding bit,” Draco said.

Hermione didn’t hold out much hope for that either. 

Draco lit the fire with his wand and snorted. She joined him on the floor and they settled down to look through the book and find something – anything – that wasn’t just painful. By the fifteenth invitation the sheer awfulness of it all had reduced them both to laughter. A winged Cupid shot arrows. Flowers bloomed up out of the bottom of the card. One even had an exhortation to live with the values of Circe in their marriage. 

“Drug you and turn you into a pig?” Hermione asked.

“It could have been the values of Nimue,” he said. “Then you’d have had to lock me in a tree.”

“I could be sold on that,” she said.

He twisted his mouth around the sourness of that and turned the page without comment. The last page had the obvious choice. Simple black words embossed on thick white parchment. Hermione glanced up at Draco. He was looking back at her with those unreadable grey eyes. A lock of his hair had fallen down across his face and marred the near perfect symmetry of his angles. “This one?” she asked.

“I’m still fond of the cherubs,” he said. “But I’m willing to yield a little.”

“Compromise,” she said. 

He picked up the book and said, “Well, I’ll be going. Off to tell mother.”

“Tell her the pale green and silver is fine,” Hermione said. She didn’t want to pull her eyes off his face. “If you are happy with it.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “She’ll want to take you dress -.”

“No,” Hermione said. She’d had too many fantasies in her childhood about wedding dresses. She’d imagined going to Harrods with her mum, sipping champagne and trying on dress after dress, lost in a romantic haze. She didn’t want to live the bitter reality of being paraded through robes shops as a stratagem. That would be too much. “I’m sure she can find something that will suit,” she added awkwardly. What bride didn’t care about her dress? Could she be more obvious she didn’t want to do this? A flash of what might have been pain narrowed his eyes and was quickly blinked away. She wanted to apologize for that, for the bar, for her fury over everything. She wanted him to apologize. She wanted all of this to go away.

“If you prefer,” he said, ignoring whatever misery played across her face to stay with the issue of the dress and nothing else. “I’m sure she has opinions.”

“I’m sure,” Hermione said. “I don’t know what people of your class would consider right, anyway,” she added. “I’m sure I’d pick out something tacky and lower class.”

Draco looked at her for a long moment before said, “You couldn’t be lower class if you tried.” Then he opened the door and slipped away.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione excused herself in the morning to ‘run errands.’ It was probably stupid to go so quickly after learning Percy had escaped. Dolohov probably had people tailing her, and, if he didn’t, Yaxley certainly did. Narcissa had just nodded almost absently over her tea and fruit cup and said to have anything she purchased charged to the Malfoy account and delivered via owl post. “No need to be weighed down by boxes and bags,” she said. “I’m sure you want to go hide in a bookstore and get a break from us all. I always like the backs of the shops. Tiny doors leading out to alleys tucked away between memoirs and travel books.”

Hermione blinked a few times, then nodded. She made a point of buying herself a brilliant red jumper in the most outrageous cashmere imaginable in one shop, and, after some hesitation, a set of practice Snitches in another. She didn’t spot anyone following her but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The man picking his teeth by the fountain could be one of Yaxley’s trackers. The woman fussing with an umbrella might be. 

In the bookstore where Narcissa had so aptly predicted she’d end up, she pushed past the stacks of Pansy Parkinson’s vile book. Maybe the pile meant they hadn’t sold well. A woman could dream. 

Umbrella lady appeared at the side of that table, book about auror’s in her hand. She turned it over and squinted at the back, then fumbled in her purse for a pair of spectacles. There weren’t that many stores, really. Diagon Alley wasn’t like Muggle London. There were only so many doors a witch could enter. It might mean nothing.

Constant vigilance.

Moving deeper into the store, Hermione ran her fingers along the spines of children’s stories, hesitated over a volume of spell craft for the modern witch, then wound her way toward the back. She’d never bothered to go past the tomes on daily meditations and tripe like _What Would Nimue Do_. Nimue would have started a war and locked Yaxley in a tree and while that seemed like a good idea, Hermione suspected the book was a little less fiery than that.

Wizarding travel books seemed even worse, with books on the exotic customs and how a wise person wore good socks and sturdy British boots on any trip and hell would freeze before she’d pick up any of Gilderoy Lockhart’s memoirs. The memory of that crush still stung. At least his lie-filled books had been stashed in the back of the bookstore right by a narrow red door that she almost missed.

She looked over her shoulder. Umbrella lady was nowhere in sight. Maybe she’d toddled on her way, off to pick up some biscuits. Maybe she assumed the front door was the only way out.

Hermione tried the latch on the red door. It opened under her hand and she slipped into a small alley. Rubbish bins lined the brick walls and not a single window peered out. Given the smell of rotting food and urine, Hermione wasn’t surprised this was a crevice no one wanted to acknowledge. Determination. Destination. Deliberation.

She hoped the crack when she disappeared wasn’t too loud. Apparition wasn’t made for stealth. She appeared in Little Whinging under a ragged tree behind Arabella Figg’s house. A cat peered at her from a window and she wished, not for the first time, that she had Harry’s cloak. Being invisible had been handy in a way she hadn’t appreciated. A hand might have twitched a curtain aside. The cat was gone, jumped down from whatever ledge it had been on, and the house sat silently.

Hermione took a deep breath and pulled a sheet of paper and quill from her bag.

_Let me know if you need anything,_ she wrote. _I’ll check back when I can. _Then, after a pause, she added, _I’m sorry, I had no choice_ though she doubted Percy would accept the apology. She reached her hand into the trunk of the tree, shuddering as she always did at the way the wood was both there and not, and left the note in the drop point. 

When she turned Mrs. Figg stood in the doorway. The woman pursed her lips then gestured urgently at her, waving her in. Hermione sighed and crossed the yard. Another thing she had no choice about. Maybe the house didn’t smell quite as badly of cat anymore. 

It did.

“Doreen?” Hermione asked wryly once the door was shut.

“Engaged?” Mrs. Figg asked in return. At Hermione’s shocked expression she pulled out a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. She’d already opened it to the gossip pages and Hermione’s heart sank as she saw the photograph of her and Draco, dancing together at that club before he’d stormed off, captioned with _Youngest Death Eater Takes a Muggle Bride_.

“I’m not exactly a Muggle,” she muttered.

“Well, he’s not exactly a Death Eater,” Mrs. Figg said. She tutted and reached down to pat a ginger cat on the head. “Nice boy?”

Before Hermione could answer she heard Percy Weasley’s voice. “Yes, Hermione. How nice is he?”

She spun and there he was. He had a tortoiseshell cat in his arms and the creature looked blissfully happy. Percy raised a brow at her shock. He looked a lot of things. He looked pale. He looked like he hadn’t eaten enough in a long time. He looked haggard and there was a nasty scar on one cheek and he’d shaved his hair. What he didn’t look like was angry. Hermione’s shoulders lightened as she studied him. 

“He’s nice enough,” she said.

“The romance grows,” Percy said. “What I’m curious about isn’t Malfoy. It’s how you convinced Rodolphus Lestrange to break into the Ministry holding cells and get me out.”

Arabella Figg scuttled into her kitchen to find tea. “Milk?” she yelled back.

“Yes, please,” Hermione called, then in a more normal volume, “Didn’t he say anything?”

Percy sank into a chair, cat still in his arms. “He went on and on about the god-slayer and what the god-slayer wanted, and the god-slayer’s mouthpiece -.”

“Well, I’m glad I get a nice title in his crazy monologues,” Hermione said. “That’s got more of a ring to it than filthy Mudblood.”

Percy laughed and the cat glared up at him for a moment, ears pressed back so she looked like an angry owl. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked as he stroked the cat, trying to settle her back down.

“Not a clue,” Hermione admitted.

“They just threw you to the wolves,” he said bitterly, “Just like they did me. Moody told me to do that undisguised, you know. And I trusted him.”

She wanted to argue it hadn’t been like that but, of course, it had. She’d been sacrificed so they could get away. Percy had been sacrificed to solidify her cover. 

“Want help?” he asked her as she stood there, not sure what to do now.

She began to smile. “More than anything in the world.”

Mrs. Figg brought a tea tray that included a plate of something hideous for the cat on Percy’s lap and they began to make plan after plan after plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to salazars for beta reading. She is a cupcake of happiness.


	28. Chapter 28

Hermione knocked on Draco’s door when she got back to the Manor. She’d checked the gardens first, then the kitchen, then wandered the corridors until, finally, she’d realized the only place he was likely to be was holed up inside his own room. She knocked once quietly then, when he didn’t answer, with a much firmer rat-a-tat-tat.

He opened the door and looked her up and down. She clenched her jaw under that cool appraisal but he stepped back and let her in. “I think your package was misdelivered,” he said. “I assume you’ve come to fetch it.”

She didn’t answer at first. She’d never been in his room. They spent all their time alone in her suite, and, as she looked around, she could see why. Her rooms were a veritable apartment. The bedroom and toilet were separate from the living space. She had seats, a desk, a fireplace. His room was just a bedroom. Oh, there was a door off to one side that probably led to a private bath. Merlin forbid any child should have to share. But the room was a child’s room. A narrow bed sat pushed against one wall, a bookcase held what she recognized even from the doorway as old Hogwarts textbooks, a Quidditch poster of Victor Krum was stuck to the wall. 

A row of glass birds sat on a shelf.

“No,” she said as he held out the package of practice Snitches for her. “I mean, I got those for you.”

His raised his brows. “Why?” he asked. 

She hated this. The words wanted to choke her and she felt like a child being marched back out to the playground by her mother. She still had to do it. “I wanted to apologize,” she said. 

Draco’s hand shook almost imperceptibly. It might have been emotion. It could have been after effects of all the torture he’d endured. Some things could never be wholly undone. Some things you lived with forever. “Oh?” he said. His voice was still cool.

“I have been unkind,” she said. “I have been snippy when you are trapped here, even more trapped than I am, and you have been nothing but gracious and I am sorry.”

“Please think nothing of it,” he said. His hand still held the Snitches out toward her. He didn’t plan to make this easy. 

She sucked in a breath and wished she could close her eyes and not have to do this but she did. “Also,” she said, “At the bar. I know I was… somewhat intoxicated.”

“Somewhat, yes.”

“And you had every reason to think I was just… reacting… but I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking of Ron or being angry at him or… just that you were there and you were so _perfect_ looking and -.” She gave up. This was more humiliation than she had bargained for, and she turned to go. “Anyway, the Snitches are for you.”

“You think I’m perfect looking?” 

The arrogant lilt that had crept into his voice made her smile. He was such an utter prat but she’d take this over the cold courtesy. “Well,” she said. “You’re no Veela, but you’ll do.”

She could hear him laugh at that. “Poor Weasley,” he said, and she twisted back to face the room. Draco had set the package back down on his schoolboy’s desk and was crossing his arms. The smirk on his face reminded her of the miserable wanker she’d known at school, though time had shifted it into a bit less smug and a bit more wry. She liked the change.

“Oh?” she asked. “Why poor Weasley.”

“The insecurity,” Draco said. She didn’t follow him, but he was clearly delighted to have the chance to explain so she let him. “A man who’s always been inadequate in his head. First, he couldn’t measure up to his brothers. Then Potter. He always thought no one really wanted him around.”

Hermione knew it wasn’t nice to take pleasure in this. She’d loved Ron, and they’d been friends longer than they’d been lovers, but as she saw where Draco was going, she couldn’t stop the mean tilt to her mouth. Draco saw it and smiled back.

“Now he’s gone and married a Veela,” he said softly, “and he’ll be miserable forever, always sure she doesn’t really want him, that she’s only with him because he got her pregnant. He’ll be haunted by all the men who’ll be drawn to her magic. It’s the most beautiful bit of self-sabotage I’ve ever seen.”

“Poor Ron,” Hermione said. 

“I want to go back to that bit where you said I looked perfect,” Draco said. He took a step toward her. “Care to expand on that?”

“Not really,” Hermione said. She shrugged as elaborately as she could. “I mean, I was pretty pissed. My judgement was off.”

“Fair enough,” he said, but he still looked unbearable pleased with himself. “And you bought me a present.”

“Well,” she said, “You always liked Quidditch.”

“I did,” he said. “It might be fun to go chase a Snitch around the back of the Manor. And I know you like Quidditch players.”

“I… what?” she said. It was half a stammer.

“Ron Weasley,” Draco said, ticking them off on his fingers, “Victor Krum. Cormac McLaggen.”

She blinked at the last one. “You noticed who I went to Slughorn’s party with back when we were 16?” she asked.

“Well,” Draco admitted, “I might not have at the time. Pansy went on about it for a bit after. It was an item of gossip.”

Hermione moved into the room, and picked the package of Snitches up. She’d been so irritated when she’d gotten back and discovered the present had been automatically sent to Draco’s room. It made sense, of course. Who else in the Manor would want Quidditch supplies? It had ruined her plan to present them to him as part of the grand apology she’d been planning since she’d seen them but she supposed it had all worked out. She weighed them in her hand. “I do like watching the players fly,” she said. “Always have.”

He smiled at her. “I can fly,” he said. “I can take you flying.”

“That’s all right.” She realized she’d taken a step back without meaning to. What was with Quidditch players all assuming that because she liked _watching _the game she had any interest in playing it? People were meant to walk on the ground and that was where she planned to stay. Draco was trying not to laugh and her mouth twisted down in a frown when she realized he knew perfectly well she hated flying. “Prat,” she muttered. 

“On that note,” he said, “while you were out shopping, I decided to do a little reading.” He reached behind him to accio a sheet of paper from the desk. She took it, afraid of what she’d find. She skimmed for a bit, then focused more carefully on the third paragraph.

_The Order of the Phoenix appears to be fully contained. Other than graffiti that continues to sporadically appear, there have been no reports of traitorous activity since the bombing of the _Daily Prophet_ building. Antonin Dolohov’s belief that Hermione Granger was the brains of the remaining operation would seem to be validated by the lack of any coordinated campaigns since the Malfoys suborned her loyalty. Loyal citizens report sightings of both Harry Potter and multiple members of the Weasley family in France but they have made no attempt to repatriate themselves. _

It went on, but the rest of the meeting notes concerned itself with some tedious business a Death Eater had raised about lowering the age at which children should purchase wands to give them more time to practice fundamentals before attending Hogwarts. Hermione found herself in uncomfortable agreement with the high-level view that the wizarding education system was in bad need of an overhaul so she handed the note back before she ended up agreeing with these monsters on anything else.

“So,” she said.

“The Ministry has driven the last naysayers away,” Draco said. “Everything will be peaceful now.”

“It will be great,” she muttered.

“A return to traditions,” he said. “Old values.”

“I can hardly wait.”

He cast a _muffliato _and said, very carefully, “You know what comes next, right?”

She looked at him. “Dictatorship,” she said. “At the hands of a man who uses torture as a policy tool.”

He nodded. She rubbed her hands against her pants. “About that,” she said. “I may have made a bit of a side trip today.”

“Oh?” Draco asked. “It did seem to take you an awfully long time to buy some Snitches.”

“I think we might need to write off most of the Weasleys,” she said. “I’m not sure they’re doing much over there in France.” She didn’t feel like mentioning that she’d had it with Moody. She wouldn’t believe for a moment that Molly had had any idea Percy had been sacrificed until the deed was done. She’d never have stood for that. Hermione she would throw to the wolves, yes, but not her own child. Never her own child.

The difference between Moody and Dolohov seemed slim at best. He might not be quite as horrid – quite as _evil_ – as Yaxley, but Moody was more than willing to use and discard tools. She remembered when a Death Eater in disguise as the man had turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret and crashed him against the pavement over and over again. Even at the time, even when she’d hated him, she’d objected that he could have been really hurt. No one had been surprised, though. No one had said, “Wait. That’s not like Alastor Moody at all.”

If you acted like a Death Eater, how were you any better? Did fighting for the right side excuse any atrocity?

“Does that mean we can skip the transcription sessions?” Draco asked. 

Hermione glanced at the meeting notes he’d snagged. “I think our time would be better spent working locally,” she said. “How do you feel about art?”

“I like art,” he said. “I’ve been considering starting my own collection.”

“Hobbies of the rich,” she said.

“Get used to it,” Draco advised. “Your days as a member of the middle classes are numbered.”

“Right,” she said. She’d briefly forgotten her future as the bonded Madam Malfoy, magically tied forever to the blond standing in front of her. She tried to smile but he wasn’t fooled.

“It shouldn’t be that bad,” he said. He waved his hand around indicating the room. “Big house. Lots of galleons.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. She rolled her eyes. “The big house with the endless parade of unpleasant visitors – and I still don’t understand why they are doing so much business _here_ instead of in conference rooms at the Ministry –, the alcoholic father and the scheming mother.”

“Hey,” he said, “your background’s not going to win any prizes either.”

She bristled for a moment, then caught the ‘either’ and studied that too casual face. He still had bags under his eyes. He was too thin. There was a point where sharp bone structure passed what was usually considered beautiful and his did. And yet. “Still,” she said, “if it were just you and a cottage, I wouldn’t be able to find any real objections to a romance.” Maybe not _marriage_, she thought to herself. Let’s not be ridiculous. But, all things measured out, would she consider falling for this man who risked everything to give Harry Potter a chance to get away, who stood steadfast in the face of her rage and grief, who slammed a fist into Alecto Carrow’s face for her? She thought she would.

“I -,” he began.

“You are sort of a hero,” she said.

“I’m not.”

She took a step forward and cupped that chin in her hand. “You are,” she said. “Not the flashy kind, maybe, but you are.”

“You’re insane,” he said but there was a desperation in his eyes. “The strain of living here has finally broken you.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But if we’re going to get married I think you should take me on a date first.”

“A date?”

“People do that, I understand,” she said. 

“We’ve been on dates,” he said. “We’ve gone out for ice cream. We’ve gone -.”

“Not on a real one,” she said. Her hand still rested on his chin and now it was awkward to remove it. If he’d been any other man she would have leaned in for a kiss but, given how badly that had gone last time, she didn’t want to risk it. She ended up just lowering her hand and rubbing the palm against her hip and immediately fretting he’d take that the wrong way and think she was trying to remove his tainted touch from her skin.

He reached his own hand down and laced his fingers through hers. “In that case, Miss Granger,” he said. “Would you go out to dinner with me tonight? On a real date?”

Why was her pulse suddenly accelerating? Why was it hard to get the words out? This was just Malfoy. This was just Draco. “I’d love to,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to salazars for beta reading.


	29. Chapter 29

Hermione changed robes three times, fussed with the diamond bracelet, and tried to figure out whether she wanted to fight with her hair to straighten it. She decided not in the end, and pulled the whole thing up into a knot that mostly contained her curls. The effect must have worked because Draco’s eyes widened in subtle male appreciation when he saw her. He didn’t say anything other than, “I hope French is fine.”

She smiled and hoped it didn’t look nervous. Why was she so nervous? This was a date, yes, but it was also _Malfoy. _It was Draco. They’d gone on pretend dates. She’d put him back together after he’d been tortured. He’d let her cry in his arms. Why was the prospect of sitting across the table from him in what was sure to be a perfectly nice restaurant doing things to her stomach? Why had she fussed so much with her clothes and her hair. She was being ridiculous. It would be fine.

The French food was fine. The bouillabaisse reminded her of trips abroad as a child and the bread brought to the table was perfection, with a soft white interior surrounded by a hard crust. The wine was excellent, but she was halfway through her glass before she even noticed how good it was. Living with the Malfoys had spoiled her. And while she might have expected the conversation to be strained, by now they knew each other well enough and had enough shared experiences that she found herself laughing at his self-mocking mimicry of the way he’d tried desperately to get Horace Slughorn to like him. In return, she told him about her mishap with polyjuice and the way she’d been turned into some sort of half-cat.

“Meow?” he said in disbelief. 

“Meow,” she admitted. 

“How could you possibly confuse a cat hair with a human hair?” he asked. The smile was warm, though, and not mockery. It invited more confidences.

“In retrospect,” she said, “I might have been a little over-confident in my abilities.”

He shook his head. “The things that infirmary has seen,” he said. 

“Do you miss it?” she asked.

“The infirmary?”

“Hogwarts.”

The school had been rebuilt, of course. McGonagall had been encouraged to retire and a tediously efficient administrator had been brought in. If it wasn’t the nightmare it had become the year she, Harry, and Ron had looked for Hallows and Horcruxes, it also wasn’t quite the place of whimsy that had enchanted their youth. Muggle Studies had been removed from the curriculum, Trelawney had retired and with her the idea Divination could be taught. Even Defense Against the Dark Arts had managed to keep a teacher for several years though Hermione suspected the weedy little man who’d accepted the position was a slightly less deranged version of Umbridge, teaching to the test, sure no one would ever need to face a Dark Wizard again.

“Do I miss Hogwarts?” Draco said the words slowly, then picked up his glass and took a sip. She knew he was stalling for time. At last he said, “No.”

Hermione wanted to say she did. She knew Harry did. But she could feel the sadness creeping over her. It had been so lovely at first. Then it had been less so. And after that even less. Draco followed her thoughts. “By the end, all I wanted was to be away,” he said. “I wanted to be free of it all.”

“And home was no better,” she said.

He flashed her a wan smile. “Well, it’s better now,” he said. “Voldemort’s death made a lot of things better.”

She nodded. “Not enough,” she said.

“No.” Another sip of wine, and he pushed some of the dinner around his plate. “But maybe this is as good as it gets.”

“No,” she said. She couldn’t accept that.

“I’m tired,” he said softly. Hermione looked down at her plate, at the food that she was sure cost more than Molly Weasley’s weekly food budget, and swallowed. She knew that feeling. It became too much. Every day there was something else. Words that couldn’t be used in Ministry documents. The announcement that a new member was joining the Wizengamot followed by protests because this one knew almost nothing about governance, because that one groped witches in the office then accused them of not having a sense of humor, because a third was reactionary and vile and closeminded. Every time the protests were held they were more sparsely attended. It was just hard. People argued and nothing changed and they looked around and decided maybe they didn’t care that much how the government worded their memos. Maybe they cared more about the cost of chicken and, anyway, as long as you didn’t do anything against the law you didn’t have anything to fear.

“I am too,” she said. “But we can’t stop.”

Draco nodded but his shoulders sagged a little more and he looked afraid and maybe a little broken. She reached her hand across the table and grabbed at his fingers. “We’re in this together, right?” she asked.

He didn’t answer so she squeezed a bit and said, “I mean, we’re about to be married so if you want to back out -.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Let’s go look at that art you were interested in.”

“After the wedding, I think,” she said. “We have enough to do now.”

They were interrupted by the waiter asking if they wanted dessert. They did, or Draco did and he ate so little on a daily basis she wasn’t going to get in the way of any calories he wanted. The dark chocolate confection he selected was delivered along with two forks and tiny cups of espresso and she fumbled with the miniature handle as she picked it up. “If I drink this, I won’t be tired,” she said.

“There are worse fates,” Draco said. He dipped his fork into the chocolate and held it out toward her. “First taste?”

Her mouth went dry. She wanted to protest she could feed herself but she didn’t. She felt herself set the tiny coffee cup down and lean forward across the table, let him slip the fork between her lips, slid the bite of bitterness and sugar onto her tongue. Like everything else they’d been served, it was excellent. He watched her face and, when an inadvertent smile blossomed in response to the chocolate, to his gesture, to this whole evening, he said, “Well, I guess they didn’t poison it.”

The words should have been a slap in the face but they seemed more like an uncomfortable declaration of something neither of them were quite ready to acknowledge. “Might be a slow acting one,” she said. 

“True enough,” he said. He dipped his fork down into the dish again and this time slid it into his own mouth. “I’ll take my chances,” he added after he swallowed.

“Risky behavior,” she said. “After the war and the… after the aftermath, I’d think you wouldn’t want to risk much anymore.”

Draco took another bite. “Some things are worth it,” he said. “Not many, but a very few things are worth maybe dying for.”

“Like this dessert,” Hermione said. She picked her own fork up and helped herself to another bite. “If it’s poisoned, at least we die happy.”

“That’s something,” he said. “An improvement.”

They walked through the streets afterward. Witches and wizards moved around them, never seeming to quite bump into them. She could see a phoenix that someone had tried to paint over on a wall. Everyone ignored it as they passed.

Hermione went to take Draco’s hand, then questioned whether that was too forward, and finally shoved her hand down into a pocket to avoid having it just hang there, dangling from the end of her arm, uncertain of what it ought to be doing. Draco seemed to have come to a similar conclusion about his own hands because down they went into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched forward. “It’s getting cool,” he said. When in doubt, talk about the weather.

“Autumn,” she said, following his lead. “Winter soon. We’re lucky it’s not raining.”

“Maybe there’ll be snow on our wedding day,” he said.

Was that good luck or bad? Hermione had no idea and before she could ask, a reporter emerged from nowhere. She forced a smile to her face as she looked at the girl, pointed hat askew on her head, quill held between shaking fingers. She looked young. She had to have been at Hogwarts when they’d been there. Had to have been there for the Carrows, though she’d probably been ordered away for the battle. Did she have nightmares still? Did she like the current peace, despite the cost?

“Did you say married?” she asked in a hushed tone. This had to be the gossip column coup of the year. “Could I?” She fumbled for a camera she had strung about her shoulder and the old-fashioned flash reminded Hermione painfully of Colin Creevey. He’d been so irritating the way he’d dragged that thing around, and then he’d been dead. Too brave under all that puppy dog enthusiasm. Too foolhardy. Hermione was about to tell the girl they’d make a formal announcement with pictures at the Manor and to please let them be when she saw a little phoenix on a chain around her neck.

She glanced back at the badly covered up graffiti.

“Pretty necklace,” she said.

The girl paled for a moment, then said very carefully, “We wait to rise.”

Hermione had no idea what the right response to that was. “All things burn and rise again,” she tried. It had to be wrong, but the girl relaxed and held the camera up, a question in her eyes. Being Harry Potter’s best friend gave you a little credibility, perhaps, even if you’d very publicly sent Percy Weasley off to jail. Or maybe the girl remembered her from school. Whatever the reason, she’d passed.

“Of course,” Hermione said. She pulled Draco close to her. “Make us look good in the picture,” she said.

The girl met her eyes. “If that’s what you want,” she said. Hermione nodded and the girl snapped three pictures in rapid succession. “People blink,” she said by way of explanation. “Even with wizarding photos you can get the most awful faces.”

“I appreciate the extra care,” Draco said. “I’d hate to look like some kind of fool in the papers.”

“You are,” the girl hesitated.

“A man who loves wizarding Britain,” Hermione said. “As it should be. As it will be.”

The girl pressed her lips together and nodded though it was clear Draco Malfoy was a harder sell. If she remembered him from Hogwarts, it wasn’t fondly or with admiration.

Hermione glanced back at the girl’s necklace. “Why don’t you owl Narcissa,” she said. “I think we’d like to give you an exclusive to the wedding. It’ll be December 24th. Tell her you’re a special friend of mine.”

The girl might be a fledgling insurrectionist, but she was a reporter too, and the possibility of an exclusive to report on a society wedding made her almost quiver even if what made it society was a man she wasn’t sure she trusted. “You can’t mean that,” she said. “I’m not the best, you know. The paper could send over someone with… they’ll want to. Not me. Someone else. Someone better.” Someone with more seniority she surely meant. 

“What do you think of Doreen Ficus’ art?” Draco asked. He hadn’t moved away from where he stood nestled up against Hermione’s side for the photograph and she leaned against him. He was so quick to see what she was doing, so casual in the way he confirmed the girl’s allegiance, and theirs. So clever in how he reassured her. 

The girl began to smile. “I quite like it,” she said.

“Be sure to mention that to my mother,” Draco said. “I think she’ll appreciate having a society photographer with a similar aesthetic sensibility to hers.  
  


“Narcissa _Malfoy_?” the girl asked. She sounded as if she didn’t quite believe it and Hermione couldn’t blame her. “She likes Doreen Ficus’ work?”

“She does,” Hermione said. “I think Madam Ficus is poised to take the art world by storm in the new year, don’t you?”

The girl took a small step back but her smile didn’t dim. “I’m so glad,” she said. “I’ll owl her. And I can run this picture, right?”

“Be sure to send us a copy,” Draco said.

The girl nodded with short, jerky movements and Hermione thought she might see the glitter of tears in her eyes before she turned and ran off, ready to develop her film, ready for the upcoming year. “Could this get any more complicated?” Draco asked quietly. She could feel his warm breath on her ear and the contrast with the cool air made her shiver.

“It’s good to control the press,” she said. 

“One junior society reporter is hardly controlling the _Prophet_,” he said.

“No,” she admitted, “but it’s a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Salazars for beta reading. She is a gem.


	30. Chapter 30

The day of the wedding dawned bright and cold. A thin layer of snow had fallen the night before and covered everything with a veneer of purity. It would be melt in an hour, but the early morning sun reflected off the sparkling white and flooded Hermione’s room with brilliance. “Merry Christmas,” she muttered to herself as she took a bite of the toast sitting on the tray. Tea, toast, and the end of her life, all in one morning. She chewed and her jaw moved the same way it had all her life. Teeth ground food, throat swallowed, everything worked automatically as she tried to calm the churning nerves that made her afraid even this bland breakfast would prove to be too much.

What she wanted was a drink? Where was the morning champagne for the bride?

She wanted her mother. 

She wanted Harry.

She wanted a thousand things, all lost to the war. Had Ron’s bride felt like this on her wedding day? Had Ron paced the floor before the ceremony, half-guilty, half-excited? Was it wrong to feel the tiniest bit of happiness about this?

The door opened and closed with the softest of clicks and she didn’t need to turn to know it was Draco Malfoy standing there. “Isn’t it supposed to be bad luck to see the bride on your wedding day?” she asked.

“Worse luck to marry an unwilling woman,” he said. She could hear his feet as they moved across the soft carpet, could feel his hand on her shoulder. “You still have time to go,” he said.

“I don’t think I like what they’d do to you if I ran,” she said. A truth. Not a whole truth, but a truth.

“I could come too,” he said. “If you’d have me.”

That she had not expected. “Your mother,” she said. “Your parents.”

He set a second hand on her other shoulder. “I do think in marriage one is supposed to turn from one’s parents and cleave to a wife,” he said. “Where you go, I will follow. Your people will be my people. All that traditional rot.”

Something burned at the edge of her eyes. “It usually goes the other way round,” she said.

“I was a careless student,” he said. “I might have skimmed a bit of the reading.”

She turned at that. His grey eyes looked down at her, a bit too raw for her liking. The bags were a bit too deep. He hadn’t slept. “You’ve never been careless in your life,” she said. She reached a hand up to lay it against his pale cheek. “Not once.”

“Do you want this?” he asked. They’d danced around the expediency since Narcissa had maneuvered them into an engagement. It was a good idea, they’d agreed. It would give them more room to move, alleviate the last suspicions she might be more than a besotted girl, redeem him in the eyes of some of the underground. It made sense on every practical level, much as his first trade of port-keys for her presence had. 

“It’s clever,” she said, hedging.

He waited.

“Do you?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “I think it is unfair of me,” he said slowly. “I am asking you to tie yourself to a man in hell.”

“I do,” she said. The words were soft and saying them made her far too vulnerable to this old enemy. She was certain the man she knew wouldn’t twist them into a knife, but the boy she’d grown up with wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have laughed with glee at the idea that the mudblood wanted him because it meant he could hurt her. Bullies always went for your weak spots. She would say ‘I do’ again soon enough, and magic would bind them, but somehow that seemed trivial compared to this moment. What power did a bonding charm have compared to honesty?

“Really?” he asked.

She brushed her thumb over the arc of his cheek, then ran her hand down his jaw. He trembled under the touch, and she used her other hand to cup the back of his neck and pull his mouth to hers. They’d kissed a dozen times at least since she’d arrived. They’d kissed to fake assault. They’d kissed to fake love. They’d shared that misunderstood kiss in the dance club. 

They’d kissed at least a dozen times.

They’d never kissed.

She pressed her lips to the side of his mouth first, then the center. His arms reached around her, one hand pressing into her lower back, the other twining fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, and feel his touch get slowly more assured, and then she was lost but so was he. His mouth opened, or maybe hers did first, and they stumbled backward until he pushed her against the wall and she was pulling at him because this was magic. This was raw, pure magic and she wanted more of it and more of him and she never wanted to let him go.

For the first time the unbreakable marriage bond she was about to make seemed like a benefit. 

“Well,” he said when he pulled away. His mouth was swollen and she could see the pounding of his pulse in the hollow of his throat. “I feel reassured.”

She stared at him in shock for a moment and then a tiny giggle began to form in the depths of her throat. It put down roots, reached upward, and bloomed into a full laugh that charmed its way out of her and danced in the air around them. “Oh yes,” she said. She had to find spaces to fit the words around her laughter. “You can be reassured.”

“You want me,” he said. The words were a bit wondering. He repeated them again, a schoolboy reciting a lesson so he wouldn’t forget. “You want me, despite all this.”

“It’s certainly not _because_ of all this,” she said, though that wasn’t quite true. If it hadn’t been for _all this_ she would never have come here. 

“We’ll fix it,” he said. “All of it.”

“I don’t suppose we can just have a tragic fire,” she said. “All the guests were lost, the happy couple and his parents barely escaped kind of thing?”

“It would make for a memorable event,” Draco said. “These things do tend to be all the same.”

“Death Eaters, politicians, and reporters?” Hermione asked. It wasn’t the sort of wedding she usually went to. The Weasleys had thrown a glorious affair with friends and cantankerous relatives and dancing. The Muggle weddings she’d gone to had mostly been loud with buffets people pretended to like and raucous laughter. Any stress was of the ‘will Uncle Albie drink too much’ variety.

Of course, Lucius Malfoy was here to fulfill that role.

“We are honored to have Yaxley as one of the guests,” Draco said.

Hermione twisted her mouth in a moue of disgust. They’d had to send the man an invitation but she’d rather hoped he’d opted to stay away. “The Carrows too?” she asked.

Draco’s bleak look answered that. “I should go,” he said. He waved a hand around with a vague gesture that probably meant she had things to do. Updos to battle, shoes to slip on, wedding dresses to button herself into. Narcissa had offered to help since she was bereft of a mother of her own but she’d firmly opted out of that. Magic could do a lot of things and one of the things it was going to do for her today was get her dressed.

“I’ll see you at the end of the aisle,” she said.

“Hermione,” he said, then stopped.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m really lucky,” he said. “Thank you.” Then he slipped away, door open and closed before she could react to that. She glanced at the space where he’d been, then at the glass bird sitting on a shelf. He wasn’t the only one. 

The day felt lighter after he left, and she wiggled into a longline bra that had to be more torture device than underwear with far more goodwill than she had expected. She’d let Narcissa pick out the dress, unable to face being dragged around to shops, and the woman’s good taste had returned with a dress of plain white silk almost stark at first glance. The simple neckline didn’t plunge or soar and not a single crystal or seed pearl adorned the fitted top. The volume of the skirts had surprised her, but they hid she was wearing comfortable shoes and they not only had pockets but had a giant slit in one side where she could tuck her wand. 

Magic put her hair up, magic applied cosmetics, magic whitened her teeth. Her own fingers fastened the diamond drop earrings into place. Her own hands slid the wand that felt like an extension of her will into place.

Dressed with time to spare she drifted to the window, cast a charm to hide herself, and watched guests arrive. This was an event. She’d looked at pictures of things like this in the magazines her parents had kept in the waiting room of their dentist practice. Lavender had giggled over the gossip of these sorts of things in their shared dorm room. She’d have loved this. It hurt she wasn’t here to see it, wasn’t here to goggle at the women with more jewellery than taste, wasn’t here to snicker at the old wizards in dress robes that belonged, if one was being charitable, in a costume history exhibit. “We’ll get revenge for you,” Hermione whispered. “Hold on, Lavender. We’re coming.”

Warming spells and weather spells held the December cold at bay and fairy lights danced along the drive, twining in and out of potted roses that bloomed with a red so brilliant it might have been blood. It looked beautiful and romantic and lush and utterly improbable. 

A young man with a confident lilt to his steps caught her eye and she laughed when she realized it was Percy. Who knew what unfortunate he’d mugged to get hair for his polyjuice, but he sauntered up the drive with a smirk that didn’t hide the way he rubbed at tattoos hidden by the spell when he thought no one was looking. 

The little reporter with her necklace was out in the front with a camera asking guests to pause. Most did. One woman wearing a fur muff brushed past, almost shoving at the girl. Hermione’s frown turned to a snicker as the desiccated head on her stole reared up and tried to bite the woman’s ear. Well, that’s what you got for wearing not only fur but fur so close to the original animal you’d left the mouth on. 

Percy hurried to stabilize the reporter before she fell over. The pair of them smiled and flirted and Hermione could see the moment he spotted her necklace followed by the quick flare in the reporter’s eyes when he said something. A connection made without her help. Good. Percy laughed and swung off, out of view and up the steps. If she listened, Hermione could hear the sounds of wedding guests coming in and handing outer robes off to human staff. Glasses clinked. Maybe the middle classes held off on drinking until the reception but these people didn’t seem to hold themselves to that standard. 

A light knocking at the door seemed loud and Hermione jerked away from the window. Her heart raced and sweat itched along her arms as the urge to flee returned. She felt like she’d been caught doing something naughty instead of just peeking at the guests coming to her own wedding.

Narcissa opened the door. “Oh,” she said, stepping into the room. “You look perfect.”

“You did pick out the dress,” Hermione said.

“I always choose the best things,” Narcissa said. “Are you ready? The string quartet has taken their place, Draco is ready, and we should have the final stragglers seating in just a few minutes.”

Narcissa wasn’t planning to let this linger on. “Afraid I plan to tie my bedsheets together and shimmy down them?” Hermione asked.

“Should I be?” Narcissa asked.

Hermione thought of the kiss and she thought of Lavender and she thought of Harry, a symbol again. “No,” she said. “I’m here to see this through.”

“Well, then,” Narcissa said with an inscrutable smile, “Let’s go.”


	31. Chapter 31

Most of the ceremony passed in a daze. Hermione walked down the aisle surrounded by so many impossibly out-of-season Easter lilies the air felt heavy with their scent. They pressed in on her as she passed people she despised and people who despised her. Draco waited, inevitable black dress robes a solid thing to grab with her eyes and hold on to like a lifeline. She could feel the diamonds at her ears and the diamonds on her wrist. When he slipped the ring on her finger it gave her another glittering shackle. When they kissed to seal the magic and the vows and the bonds, she could feel the fire of the spell burn through her. It left light instead of ash in its wake. She was the burning star. She was the enchantment. She held his hand to proceed back up the aisle and out and when his fingers tightened around hers it was the first real thing in the whole ceremony. She leaned against him when they were briefly free, out of the heady, suffocating ball room with its flowers and audience. 

“You okay?” he asked.

Before she could answer, Narcissa pressed a champagne flute into her hands. “Those bonding spells can linger,” she said. “This will clear your head.”

Hermione was fairly sure no one had ever suggested champagne for that before, but she took a quick sip and almost sneezed as the bubbles tickled her nose. And then the crowds were on them and it was receiving line time. Someone had the sense to open a window and cold air blew in but it was the only refreshing gift to be had. Person after person paraded by her, squeezing her hand and simpering that it was just so lovely to see this sort of thing. You knew the war was over when love that crossed class boundaries like this was a thing you could celebrate. At least three people congratulated Lucius on his open mindedness in her hearing. She’d have expected him to agree, and perhaps he did with the first one. By the third he was looking at the well-wisher with undisguised contempt. “She’s a _Malfoy_,” he said as if he were wondering whether he needed to use smaller words to convey her new-found superiority to whatever trash had presumed to condescend. 

“Well.” Hermione found herself face to face with Alecto Carrow. She took a rapid swallow of her champagne but it didn’t help. The sour-faced woman didn’t disappear. Pity. She’d hoped maybe the sneer sitting atop her thick neck was some kind of post-bonding hallucination. There hadn’t been any others but a girl could dream that a head cleared by champagne would include a head free of the sight of the Carrow woman.

“Alecto,” Hermione said. “How wonderful you could make it.”

“We were afraid you’d miss the last bus out of the swamp,” Draco added.

“Swamp?” Alecto asked.

Hermione made a show of sniffing the air, then said, “You mean you don’t live in the muck and filth? My mistake. I’m so sorry.”

Alecto took a step closer. Hermione could feel her breath on her face, and smell it too. It wasn’t good. Strong, but not good. “The only filth here is you,” she said. “The Malfoys have polluted their house with your blood. May your children -.”

Hermione was never to find out what curse Alecto wanted to spew all over her theoretical children because Yaxley came up behind her and set a hand on her shoulder, stopping her invective and leaving her mouth gaping.

“You’ll catch flies,” Draco said, and she snapped it shut.

“My Lord,” she said, half turning and all sycophantic delight. If she bowed and scraped her submission any lower, she’d have to lie on the floor. 

“The Malfoys are a valuable ally in the Ministry,” Yaxley said. “Lucius, I know, has retired from active government service, but they remain influential, Alecto.”

That sounded like a warning to Hermione. Alecto didn’t hear it. “She’s a _mudblood_,” she nearly hissed.

Hermione reached into the deep pocket of her wedding dress and pulled out her wand. As soon as she had the length of it free, she whipped her arm up and jabbed the point into Alecto’s neck. It pushed into the flesh and a shadowed indent circled the tip of the wood. “What did you say?” she asked.

Alecto swallowed and her throat convulsed. “My Lord,” she said. “You can’t let her -.”

Yaxley patted her on the shoulder and she stopped speaking again. “I do want to tender my apologies,” he said to Hermione. “Work has been so busy lately I quite failed to get you a wedding gift. You know how things are.”

“Quite,” Draco said. He barely didn’t stammer and Hermione was reminded _this_ was the man who’d tortured him and ordered his torture. “Please don’t worry about it. Just your presence is honor enough.”

“No, no,” Yaxley said. “It’s so gauche to not give the happy couple a token. And I have the perfect thing right here.”

“My lord?” Hermione had no idea what he was talking about.

“Alecto.” Yaxley patted her on the shoulder. “You can have her life.”

“What?” Hermione was absolutely sure she’d heard that wrong. 

“Just kill her,” Yaxley said, and she knew she hadn’t heard it wrong or, rather, she’d missed that it was an order. “Put her down like the mad dog that she is.” He leaned forward and said in a stage whisper that carried throughout the whole, large room. “Though Narcissa would probably prefer it if you didn’t get blood on her carpets.”

Hermione handed the glass of champagne she still had in one hand to whatever poor soul had the misfortune of being behind Alecto in the receiving line. The witch, a middle-aged frump with too many sequins on her robes, took the half-drunk flute and faded back into the crowd. Everyone wanted to see, but no one wanted to be too close. Well, she couldn’t fault them for that. It was human nature to stare at a disaster, even if you despised yourself for doing it.

Yaxley’s smile bared too many teeth.

He probably wanted her to cast an unforgivable in front of this crowd. That was his style, wasn’t it? If you could make people complicit in their own degradation, you had them. They couldn’t separate themselves from you after that. Not without admitting they’d done horrible things.

Well, she’d already done a lot of horrible things.

She pointed her wand at Alecto and whispered the spell. She’d found it in a book on the medical arts, of all things. The difference between healing and hurting could be such a narrow one, after all. Sometimes a person’s heart became arrhythmic. Too fast. Too slow. Irregular. A spell could reset it to the speed the mediwitch selected. It was wonderful magic.

She selected a speed of zero. No beats at all.

Alecto stood still for a moment. She looked puzzled, probably because nothing obvious had happened but possibly because she was still trying to understand that her master had handed her over as a sacrifice. Then her body began to slump. Her knees buckled under her and she leaned over, like a melting candle that had gotten a little bit off center and slowly collapsed. There was a bit of a gasping wheeze as she tried to breathe, and then she was unconscious on the floor.

“Is she?” Hermione heard someone ask from the back of the crowd. She didn’t answer. She stood and looked down at the lumpish woman who had tortured Draco, who had tortured schoolchildren, who had taught schoolchildren to torture. Her lips were turning blue, and her skin growing paler with every tick of the clock. She looked waxen and dead, though any decent healer could have brought her back still. Another whispered spell and a lick of flame grew from the center of Alecto’s black dress. It reached out, hungrily, and lapped at the fabric. There was a pause as the fire seemed to collect itself, then it sprang upward in a great rush and the crowd all stepped further back, driven away by the wall of heat expanding outward.

Hermione stopped the fire before it could singe the carpets or floor under them. It took far more magical finesse to keep the blaze to just the body and she was pleased with herself, despite the atrocity of the whole event, when she ended it all and the fire had been hot enough to reduce even the bone to ash but hadn’t destroyed a single fiber of Narcissa Malfoy’s surely priceless oriental rugs.

She smiled at Yaxley. Did he look momentarily shaken by that show of power and control? She hoped so. She hoped a tiny fission of fear bloomed in the rotted core of what passed for his miserable soul. _I’m coming for you_, she whispered in the privacy of her own mind. _You shouldn’t have made your partisanship of me quite so obvious because now you can’t afford to alienate me. It will make you look afraid and dictators and bullies can’t ever have people thinking they’re afraid._

“Well done,” he said. “Ice and fire.”

“It seemed poetic,” Hermione said. She looked down at the pile of black ash and made an exaggerated face of distaste. “But maybe we should all be careful about where we step. I’d hate to track that all over the Manor.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa said. She raised her voice a little. “I hate to cut the receiving line and cocktail hour short, but let us all proceed to dinner. While we eat, the staff will clean that up and by the time we cut the cake and the music begins, there will be no worries.”

Relieved to know what to do, the crowd followed her to the dining room. Hermione hoped the kitchen staff was up to seamlessly rushing out the meal. She hadn’t even thought to ask what Narcissa had selected. Wedding food was all the same in the end, and what was always forgettable would be moreso after that murder.

After Yaxley tipped his head to her and strode off, Hermione whispered one last spell, a tiny bit of transfiguration.

“Father?” Draco asked.

Lucius was standing in the receiving line, glass still in his hand. He seemed a bit stunned. He looked at his champagne flute, handed it off to a passing caterer, and a cold smile tugged at his mouth. “If I’d realized all I had to do to get him to kill that harpy was marry you off, I’d have done it ages ago.”

Draco’s laugh was more than a tad uneasy. “Father?” he asked again. “Are you okay?”

“More than,” Lucius said. “Pity you don’t have a brother, though. Maybe _Lord_ Yaxley would kill off Amycus at a second wedding.” He turned the title into absolute contempt.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione said. It was half a question.

Lucius straightened his robes with a fussy gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place on a dandy in a romance novel. He became briefly very concerned with a cuff-link that had twisted the wrong way, then with the pleating in his fancy white scarf. She waited with more patience than she’d have expected to have for Lucius Malfoy. When at last he was satisfied with the way all the accoutrements of his wealth and power sat, he said, “You should really call me father, Hermione. It sends a message.”

She glanced at Draco, who shrugged. She was on her own with this one.

“Well, then, _father_,” she said. “We should go sit down. They are probably holding the meal for us and if we wait too long, Narcissa will be annoyed with us.”

She gestured toward the door and, with a sniff in the direction of the pile of ash, Lucius stalked off. 

“After you,” Draco said, and she let him take her arm and lead her out. She glanced back at the last few stragglers. Percy, in his disguise, was one, as was the reporter. She saw Percy lean down to what had been Alecto and pull the last bit of magic she’d worked out of the ashes. He held the phoenix feather in his hand and glanced at the reporter. She looked back in terror and awe. The handful of remaining guests gasped audibly as Hermione slipped out with her husband to drink good wine and accept congratulations on her marriage. They’d eat the dinner, and cut the cake, and dance to musicians far too talented to be trapped playing weddings. It would be banal and romantic and political and dull.

And the story of the feather would get whispered from ear to ear all night long.

_We wait to rise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to stefartemis for her medical expertise in explaining to me what happens when your heart stops. Any errors in the description are my fault.
> 
> Thank you to tamrapraxidike for beta reading. She is an utter gem.


	32. Chapter 32

Draco busied himself lighting the fire and pouring them both some tea when they got back to her suite. Their suite, now. Hermione pulled off her flat, practical shoes, set her wand on the desk where she’d copied out so many memos and all those pages of meeting notes, and took the cup he handed her with a strained smile.

“That was not awful,” she said.

He raised his brows and she began to laugh. “He made you kill a woman,” Draco said. “And the pink filling in the cake tasted like flowers.”

The cake had been a bit too sweet, though she’d laid that at the feet of the heavily scented air. When everything around you was cloying, whatever delicate flavor the pastry chefs had worked into their creams had no chance. “I’ve had worse cake,” she said.

“That I can believe.” Draco sounded as if he were trying to be condescending but it wasn’t quite coming out. “But your childhood of bad Muggle cake isn’t the standard I was hoping to exceed at our wedding.”

She poked him with one finger. “I’m going to make you eat those words in Muggle bakeries.”

“Threats will get you nowhere.”

She sat down on the floor in front of the fire. The whole dress fluffed around her like a parachute before settling down in a ring of white. She almost didn’t want to take it off. The top was tight, and she was ready to breathe freely again, but the sheer feminine pleasure of the full skirt was something she would miss. Life should have more ball gowns.

“More ball gowns and less murder,” she said.

Draco sat next to her. “What?”

She scooted closer along the floor so she could lean up against him. The dress wadded up in great piles of fabric and he pressed his lips against the side of her forehead before she nestled against him. “Too much murder,” she said.

“Not quite the usual thing,” he said before hesitating then going on in a bit of a nervous rush. “You okay?”

She was and she wasn’t. It was hardly the first time, and if anyone deserved it it was one of that pair. Still, was it bad luck to murder a person on your wedding day? If not, it probably should be. “I’ll be fine,” she said. She looked into the fire. It didn’t have the same heat as the one she’d kindled earlier. It just flickered and waved at them both from the log some servant had probably laid in the grate. “What now?”

“We have sex,” Draco said rather baldly. “To complete the bonding.”

Hermione screwed her mouth up and nodded as she kept looking in the fire. A log crackled and broke into two pieces, each of which settled down further and nestled themselves into the growing pile of black and white ash. Of course that was what they did. Naturally that was what bonding wedding rituals required. And it was normal to have sex with your husband the night of your marriage. It would be weird not to.

“I should take the dress off,” she said. 

“I didn’t mean right this second.” 

She twisted her head so she could look at Draco and he seemed just as nervous and uncomfortable as she felt. She had to remind herself that he was even less experienced than she was. “Well,” she said. “It’s hard to relax in it.”

“Oh,” he said. “In that case.”

She shifted so he could undo all the endless hooks and buttons she’d used magic to do up earlier. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the tiny things. “Can you imagine having to sew all those on?” she asked. 

He let out a laugh. “No.”

“Probably a good thing neither of us wants to be a seamstress.”

His hands steadied after that, and as each inch of her dress opened up she could feel her ribs expanding and her body releasing. White silk hung between the bones that had pressed into her. The dress became a waving flag, or maybe a line of drying laundry. She stood to wiggle out of it, left in a petticoat, stockings, and bra. She wanted that bra off too, and slipped into the bedroom to get it off. She should have been surprised to find the white negligée set out on her bed – their bed. She wasn’t. A little horrified, maybe, because that had to have been a gift from Narcissa and some things didn’t bear close examination. One of them was your mother-in-law buying you a slip of a thing with lace and seed pearls, the sort of thing designed to catch a man’s eye. 

It was comfortable, though.

“Nice,” Draco said when she reemerged. He swallowed hard and tried to look nonchalant but the immediate tening of his trousers reminded her how inexperienced he was at all of this. How odd to be the savvy one. All the other men in her life had at the very least had serious girlfriends before her. He’d pulled his shoes off and undone his tie. He’d slung his jacket over a chair. Still, though, he was dressed and she was in lingerie and however nervous he was, the power imbalance of that made her nervous too until she spotted the hole in one of his socks. She pressed her lips together to try to hold in the laugh. “What?” he asked.

She pointed at the hole and he looked down at it. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“How do we start this?” she asked.  
“I ravish you with my tremendous prowess?” he suggested. 

“I should do the ravishing,” she said.

“That would work too.”

He said it so dryly that she laughed again, and he wiggled the toe with the holey sock and she laughed harder, and then it was just the two of them again and not this tense, political couple who’d gotten married and done murder and chatted after with one person after another as though nothing untoward had happened at all. She’d danced with Dolohov. She’d danced with his son. She’d cut the too-sweet cake and tossed a bouquet of lilies and pretended not to feel people’s eyes creeping over her all night. 

It was good to be just them again.

She sat next to him and tugged on the white tie draped around his neck. “Come here often?”

He set a hand along her lower back and pulled her toward him, then made a face. “These bead things are pokey,” he said.

She leaned in closer despite his objection to the surely expensive pearls, and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. “You looked nice,” she said.

“A man is supposed to look good on his wedding day,” Draco said. “I think it’s an insult to the bride to not make an effort.”

“Oh, and you wouldn’t want to insult me,” she said wryly. She set her hand against the warm skin of his chest and felt the rise and fall of his breathing. 

“Not anymore,” he said. “Never any more.”

Then they were kissing and this was a thing they knew. She could make her way from here, from the feel of his hand creeping up her back until, heedless of the little pearls, from his mouth on her neck, from her lips on his throat. This was a ritual as old as humanity and, if Draco had never drunk from this particular well before, he made up for the lack as the fire sang then whispered then settled into silent coals.

“Is it okay to love you?” she asked when they were done. His clothes had been pushed to the side. Her nightgown had a rip in the chiffon even magic wouldn’t be able to repair. She’d felt the bond tighten during their night’s revels. It had wrapped around her and held her so closely she had worried for a brief moment she might never breathe again, then had released, still there but already as familiar as a hand, as much a part of her as her own body. No wonder Narcissa had never once contemplated betraying her husband. It would be a betrayal of yourself. You might as well cut off your own arm.

“Love me?” Draco asked. “It’s fine. Probably a bit of poor judgement on your part, but I’m hardly going to object.”

She hit him.

He rubbed at his arm and pulled his face into a fake pout. “Great,” he said. “Barely married and she’s already abusing me.”

She was about to apologize when she realized he was laughing at her behind that petulant lower lip and the words died. “You jerk,” she said.

“Your jerk,” he corrected her. 

“Now what?” she asked.

He eyed her and said rather dryly, “Honeymoon on a tropical island to start. Then running an underground resistance movement so we can tear down the government and put Potter on a float and parade him around London as the Chosen One.”

“Huh,” she said.

“Has the plan been changed?” he asked.

“I was hoping for sleep,” she admitted. 

“Sleep I think I can offer.” Draco stood and scooped her up. She was about to tell him not to strain himself. She could feel one of his hands trembling against her skin. The pleased look in his eyes stopped her. Carrying her across this arbitrary threshold, from their sitting room to their bedroom, meant something to him. She let her eyes close and her head fall against his shoulder so he could have his moment. He set her on the bed and then frowned when he realized she was on top of the blankets. She scooted herself up so she could slip under them and he shut the door with a wandless charm before climbing in next to her.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and she closed her eyes. It had been a long time since she’d slept next to another person. She let his steady breathing lull her and, before long, she had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

Morning came with a bright winter sun. “Merry Christmas,” Draco said when she stirred.

She laughed. “I think I already got my present.” She wiggled her hand and the diamond on it glittered when it caught the light. A Christmas Eve wedding wouldn’t deter Narcissa Malfoy from doing the right and proper thing on Christmas morning, no matter how exhausted she was. Staff helped, of course, but Hermione would be willing to bet her mother-in-law had been up until the wee hours of the morning making sure everything from the one event was swept away and everything for the next was in place. 

Her mother-in-law. She couldn’t decide how she felt about that. Better than the father-in-law, she supposed.

“What’s the plan?” she asked. 

“The stockings will all match,” he said. He was trying to summon a certain nonchalance but she could see his childish pleasure in the traditions under all of that. “If my mother had to throw them all away and buy all new to make sure yours fits in perfectly she will have.”

“Paper crowns?” Hermione asked. She peeked down at the edge of the bed but, thank god, Narcissa had not crept in in the night to hang the stocking there.

“Oh yes,” he said. “And a pudding.”

Hermione didn’t want to ask about the Queen’s Speech. It had been a thing when she’d been a child. Her grandparents had insisted and the whole family had gathered around. She’d always been bored out of her mind. Funny that was the thing she missed. Funnier that she missed it now. Maybe it was all the opulence of the Manor. It made one think of royalty. The Weasley’s had been vaguely aware that Muggles had a Queen, but they’d seemed to see it as one more odd thing about Muggles. “Like in a storybook,” Percy had said once. He’d been trying to be polite but it had come out a bit skeptical. She so rarely thought about the Muggle world anymore, but holidays and traditions brought back the ache of how things had been before she’d known about magic or war. 

“I like pudding,” was all she said but he saw the hesitation on her face and the brief shadow that clouded her eyes.

He touched her arm. “What sorts of things did you do as a kid?” he asked.

“The same, really, I’m sure,” she said. “Stockings and my dad usually had a drink in his hand by breakfast, and we had turkey and puddings in the afternoon. Usually a bit early so we could watch the… the Queen’s Speech.”

“Huh,” Draco said. He sat up and headed for the shower but she could see him thinking. “Did I ever tell you one of my great grandfathers wanted to marry Elizabeth I?” he shouted out over the running water. 

She’d gotten up and begun trying to decide what to wear but she stuck her head into the bath at that. Draco had a bar of soap in one hand, his back to the door, and buttocks she felt oddly guilty for admiring. They were married – they’d consummated that union multiple times – but she could still feel a blush steal onto her cheeks as she watched water run down his back, over that arse, and then down his legs. He was too thin but all those years of playing Quidditch had given him something.

Something she was staring at.

“No,” she managed to say. “I didn’t know that.”

“Given that,” he said, “I’m sure we could find a radio around and tune into it. If you wanted.”

She could feel a tear stinging at the corner of one eye. “That would be nice,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to akashikadoesthings and rosella1356 for alpha and beta reading this for me. It’s been a difficult chapter and I appreciate their help more than I can say.
> 
> Thank you also to you for reading. Like many writers, I long to enchant you and hope that I have.


	33. Chapter 33

The Christmas stockings did indeed match, and had been filled with cakes and candies and tiny magical toys. Hermione pulled out a top that spun itself. Draco had a Quidditch playing dragon. Unfortunately, the dragon’s charm wasn’t very sophisticated and it decided the top was the Snitch, grabbed it, and ran under one of the arm chairs from where it hissed at anyone who tried to come close.

The full breakfast was delicious. The usual trays of French pastries and low-calorie yogurt had been replaced with grilled tomatoes and fried mushrooms and enough beans and bangers for at least twice as many people as were at the table. Draco hunted down a radio and, with some effort, tuned in a station playing the Queen’s Speech. It was as dull as Hermione remembered but somehow, sitting here with these people who were family, it filled her with a warm sense of tradition.

“I had no idea you were such a royalist,” was all Lucius Malfoy had to say on the matter. 

Hard to believe he counted as family now. But then, everything seemed like it was part of a slightly surreal dream. Christmas passed, and then they were on their honeymoon, and that passed. Sand was good, though not everywhere. Sun was good as long as Draco remembered charms against burning. The ocean was blue and beautiful and it was all so bloody peaceful she thought she’d go out of her mind. 

“Remind me what our assets are,” Draco said the last day as he rubbed a local potion made of aloe and something unpronounceable that screamed when you harvested it on his legs. She thought she might hear a little whimper from the potion itself, like an echo of the rage it has felt at being harvested. 

“Harry,” she said. Draco snorted and she ignored that. “The Order.” He snorted again and she picked up the hunk of coconut that had been in her drink and tossed it at his head. He ducked.

“How about, what are our useful assets,” he said. 

“Your mother.”

“Dubious and agenda laden, but go on.”

“Rodolphus Lestrange.”

“Insane.”

“Percy Weasley.”

“Okay, that’s one.”

“Arabella Figg.”

“Who?” he asked, and she realized that in all the chaos of getting ready for the wedding she’d never clarified that funny little thing.

“The artist,” she said. “The one whose opening we went to?”

“The one with the pretentious and inept would-be rebellion?”

“Yeah,” she said though spending too long thinking about just how inept the people making noises against the government were would result in her needing another drink. It wasn’t that she expected people to all be brilliant and brave and noble. That was Harry and look where it had gotten him: hiding in France. It was Ron, too, and Molly, and they were just as gone. But if these people couldn’t be as good as the Order, was it too much to ask that they just be competent? “That’s the one.”

“She suddenly develop talent?”

“I’m going to hit you.”

He just raised his eyebrows at her. That was one good thing that had come out of this honeymoon. Draco had relaxed. He didn’t flinch when she moved too quickly any more. He didn’t check every door of every room they went into, looking for the fastest way out. He ate. His hands still shook occasionally. Nerve damage never went all the way away. And she was sure that as soon as they were back in Britain he’d go back to his cautious habits. It was still good to see him less tense. 

“Her real name is Arabella Figg. She was a member of the old Order under Dumbledore and now -.”

“This list of assets is not encouraging. Crazies and has-beens and one Weasley.”

“And a tiny movement we aren’t quite sure of with the reporter and her necklace.”

“So… two probably worthless undergrounds, an Order off in another country, a bad artist, a Weasley, and us. Did I miss anyone?”

“Rodolphus? Your mother?”

Draco raised his hand to signal one of the staff of the resort they’d gone to. “Could I get another pina colada?” he asked. Of course he could. It would be the waiter’s pleasure. Should that be charged to their room?

Hermione waited for the unctuous and surely underpaid waiter to walk off before she said, “I never would have taken you for a mixed drink guy.”

“Live a little,” Draco said. “When this is over, we’re going to move someplace like this permanently, get a small house, and I’m going to collect shells and old manuscripts.”

“Over,” she said. “That sounds nice.”

“It sounds impossible,” he said.

“Well, I guess that means it will take a little more time than the merely difficult,” she said. He smiled, one side of his mouth going up a little more and she leaned over and took his hands in hers. One of them trembled and it was all she could do not to grip it too tightly. “Crazies, has-beens and us against the whole Ministry for Magic.

“Poor bastards won’t know what hit them,” he said.

The waiter brought the garish drink, and she reached over to pull out the slice of pineapple and hunk of coconut. Whenever he ordered one of these concoctions, she stole the fruit. She’d had cherries dyed bright red, pineapple soaked in rum, and more coconut than she’d ever had in her life. She sucked the bit of the drink clinging to the pineapple off as Draco took a sip, then leaned over to kiss him. 

They’d been frantic at first. Two weeks away from the cold and the damp and the worries and living in a house with his parents where magic meant no lock really held and they’d been desperate to learn one another. They’d done all the things every new pair of lovers does. They’d traced scars and told stories and discovered that yes, touch here, and no, don’t do that. Insatiability had given way to a lazy pleasure that was, if anything, more delightful than the first days when they hadn’t been able to get their clothes off quickly enough.

He picked the pineapple out of her hand, set it down on the table between their beach chairs, and she mumbled an objection against his mouth. That table was covered in sand and now she couldn’t eat the rest of the pineapple slice. Then he cupped a hand behind her head and she fumbled her way across the gap between them until she was on his lap, her own hands wound up in his hair. He was, she had decided, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Angular, yes, and scarred, yes. Angular and scarred and shaking but he could look up at her from those grey eyes and the spark of intelligence grabbed her. The dry wit and humor – most of which was so mean she’d gasp and hit him on the arm even as she laughed – pulled her in in a way model-beauty without that lancing mind never would. And, of course, it helped that he turned out to be very good at this. He bit at the side of her mouth, then ran his lips along the curve of her neck, and when she said, in a last-ditch effort at not being _those people_, “We’re in public,” his response was simple and succinct.

He stood up, grinned at her, and said, “Bet I get back to the room first.”

She gave him enough time to think she’d run after him, scooped up the drink, and apparated to their room. She was on the bed when he arrived, bikini top already untied.

“I win,” she said.

He was already kicking off his sandals. “If this is losing, I’m all for it.”

When they were done, when she was tracing her fingers over the scars where Harry had almost killed him and he had his hand over the puckered mark Dolohov had left on her shoulder, she let her body line up with his. Feet and legs and hips and arms. They curled into one another as if some god had carved them from the same marble and cast them loose on the world.

“Remember when you told me you’d have preferred to trade for Ginny,” she asked. It had been an eternity ago or a few months depending on how you charted time. 

He kicked her. 

“You did say it,” she said.

“It would have been a pragmatic choice,” he said. “She would have been more acceptable to the people in and about the manor.”

His voice hesitated for a moment on the word people. They were people. Monsters, but people. Toadies. They held their prejudice as common sense and felt sorry for people so naïve they didn’t share it. They would have hated Ginny. They could feel pleased with themselves for being so open-minded they didn’t mind her. _Oh, Hermione Malfoy,_ she could hear them in her mind. _She’s so polite, and smart. Did you know she got all those N.E.W.T.s?_

Ginny would have been a rebuke. There was no virtue in liking a pureblood girl who was trying to tear down the very structure they lived in. A sweet little Mudblood who seemed to want to succeed on their terms was much easier to swallow.

She couldn’t wait to make them choke.

“A pragmatic choice,” Draco repeated. His voice took on the mean teasing lilt she knew covered a gaping hole in his sense of self. “Too bad Harry would never have let her go.”

“Not really,” Hermione said. She decided to ignore his obnoxious gibe. She didn’t feel like getting into it. “It was a dumb choice.” 

“Are you calling me dumb?” Mock outrage. Real fear.

“You,” she said, “are brilliant. You’re also not the best stagiest I’ve ever known.”

“And who is.”

That was another thing she wasn’t going to go into. Maybe Ron, and she was fairly sure that praising your ex while in bed with your husband was a good way to start a fight. His mother was another possibility and one should avoid thinking about a man’s mother while he lay naked next to you. Since both honest answers were out, she went with, “Me,” delivered in as arch a tone as possible.

Draco laughed and kissed the side of her neck. “That,” he said, “I cannot argue with.”

“See,” she said. “So brilliant you know not to argue with your wife.”

They lay in silence, half-asleep, as the sun sank down along her allotted path and darkness grew up in her wake. “Tomorrow we return,” Hermione said at last. She itched to start the fight again. 

“I can hardly wait,” Draco said and, much as she’d opted to ignore the snide comment earlier she let this one lie too. It would all be worth it when they won.

* * * * * * * * * *

Of course, she thought as she set her handbag down on the desk in their suite and picked up the pile of correspondence that had accumulated in their absence, it was much easier to feel confident about winning when you were safely in an expensive resort watching the sun go down, the only real risk that you’d dislike your dinner order.

“Anything good?” Draco asked. She knew by his tone he meant _especially bad._

She opened up one that didn’t have a return address and skimmed it before she handed it over. If she understood the code right, and she was fairly sure she did, Percy and the little reporter had created a series of articles that praised the authoritarian nature of the current regime with heavy-handed enthusiasm.

“But none of this is false,” Draco said. She could see his eyes moving across the sample of the article Percy had enclosed. “They do send people to Azkaban without trials, claiming they are holding them as enemy combatants. And they do separate children from Muggle-born parents if those parents have done anything wrong. They kept one little girl in near solitary confinement for a month while her parents got all their paperwork in order. I remember seeing notes about that in one of those memos.”

Hermione nodded grimly. None of it was false. The idea was to praise the government so enthusiastically the Ministry itself couldn’t object. The less clever people in Yaxley’s circle might even think the articles were complimentary. The hope was that ordinary, regular people would slowly become outraged.

She opened the next envelope. This one was an invitation to a small viewing for serious collectors, signed Doreen Ficus. She smiled. That might be horrible – Arabella, god love her, was a dedicated and sincere operative but a terrible artist – but at least they would be surrounded by people who were tied into one of the local rebel groups. They could drink bad wine and get a feel for the current mood.

She pulled open the large envelope where she kept the paper with the protean charm. She should at least check to see if Molly had written anything. 

She had.

Or someone had.

_Congratulations on your wedding. That didn’t take long._

She had to read it twice before she could quite fathom the depths of anger she felt. Then she walked across the room and set the sheet of paper on the grate in the fireplace. Every action felt calmly deliberate, even when she pulled out her wand, murmured the charm, and set the sheet on fire.

She’d do the rest of this without them.

Draco didn’t say anything.


	34. Chapter 34

Hermione wound her hair back into a neat twist and shoved a pin in it. When it threatened to tumble down anyway she murmured a sticking charm. She didn’t want to have to fuss with this nonsense. Bad enough she had to drink that vile Polyjuice or go mingle with the pretentious snobs of the wizarding art world. She didn’t plan to have a hair emergency.

Draco laughed at the sour expression on her face and came up behind her. “You could leave it down,” he suggested. He touched one finger to a spot he’d learned well on their honeymoon. “Keep me away.”

She smiled at him in the mirror and for a moment her eyes were warm. Then they weren’t. “We have a job to do,” she said. “We aren’t going to this for fun.”

“Oh, thank god,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to have any fun.” She gave him a look that would have quelled Harry or Ron but Draco just quirked a brow up and remained resolutely unquelled. She tried to suppress a smile but didn’t quite manage it. He’d been happier since the time they’d taken away. It made her want to slip out, run for the hills with him, and never return. He handed her the potion and she pushed that fantasy aside. 

They both took a swig and pretended polyjuice didn’t taste vile. 

“It’ll be fun,” she said as she transformed into a wholly unremarkable witch. “People do go to these to have a good time, right?”

What fun there was in the world hadn’t stopped in to visit that particular art gallery, however. The paintings were as bad as ever and Hermione had to keep from groaning at the one of three cats trying to climb up the legs of an otherwise unseen figure. Even with the fragmented style she recognized Arabella Figg’s pants. A small tortoiseshell cat had a feather in its mouth that it kept offering to anyone who came near.

“Is that a phoenix feather?” Draco asked.

“You know your birds.” The man who came up behind them wore dress slacks just a little too short. He had scrapes along three knuckles hadn’t healed. 

“Well,” Draco said, almost simpering in his polyjuiced role of art lover. Hermione wanted to tell him not to lay it on so thick but she settled for a glare. He ignored it. “They aren’t exactly difficult birds to spot. Not like the common siren sparrow.”

“Plus,” Hermione said rather dryly, “the feather is on fire.”

“Smoldering,” the man said but even as he said that the hints of red at the edge of the feather leapt upward in a glorious spattering of red and yellow and orange dots as Arabella’s experiment with pointillism burned. When the feather was gone, the cat trotted off to a distant corner of the painting.

“He’s getting another one,” the man said. “It cycles through. I’ve seen him get four so far.”

“Her,” Hermione said.

“What?”

The cat returned and Hermione pointed at the orange and black patterns on the cat’s fur. “All tortoiseshell cats are female,” she said. 

The man squinted at her. “I don’t feel like that’s right,” he said. “He’s the cat bringing the _phoenix feather_ back to us. Wouldn’t that make him male?”

“Like Potter,” someone near them murmured very quietly.

Hermione ground her teeth together and tried to keep a pleasant smile on her face. Her job here was to recruit these people to help overthrow the government. She didn’t have to like them. She didn’t have to plan on inviting them back to the Manor for tea and biscuits. She certainly didn’t have to get them to acknowledge she was right even though she absolutely was and how dare this idiot try to impose his feeling that a phoenix feather bringing cat had to be male because of some sexist twaddle he had embedded deep down in his worthless little brain?

One little comment wouldn’t hurt.

She opened her mouth.

Draco stepped closer and his foot scraped along the back of her heel hard enough to break skin.

“Oh,” came the too shrill voice of Arabella Figg before Hermione could recover from Draco’s apparent clumsiness. She came lumbering toward them, wine glass clutched in fingers with nails she’d clearly chewed on wearing a truly unfortunate skirt. “You found Charlene!”

Hermione bent over and read the placard next to the painting. 

Title: _Charlene and Her Catch.   
_Artist: Doreen Ficus  
Description: This work explores the relationship between depersonalization and violence. Influenced by both Pablo Picasso’s _Cat Devouring a Bird _and recent wizarding history, this painting crafts new synergies for the modern day, leaving the viewer with insight into the inaccuracies of predicting the future.  
  


“I like it,” she said. She didn’t. It was terrible. But she couldn’t tell Arabella that and, besides, as propaganda it was working.

Arabella beamed at her. “I am so happy to hear that,” she said. The cat in the painting let out a yowl that made Arabella frown. “Hush, you,” she said. She leaned closer to Hermione and said in a whisper clearly meant to carry. “I had no idea when I used my own kitty as a model the painting would manage to capture so much of her personality. She’s a very loud cat.”

“I’m sure magical paints are a learning experience,” the man who had been sure Charlene had to be a boy cat said. “What with you being, well -.” He hesitated as though he were being delicate.

“A squib,” Arabella said. This time she didn’t bother to pretend to keep her voice down. “You can say it, dearie.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he said. 

“No point in being embarrassed by the way we’re born,” she said. She patted him on the arm and Hermione pushed her lips together. Arabella looked for all the world like she was commiserating with him on his many congenital failings. He wasn’t thick enough to miss that and he bristled. Her smile got more and more condescending and he bristled and she condescended and he bristled until at last he looked away from her and back at the picture. 

“The cat is a boy,” he said, trying to salvage some sort of pride.

“Oh, no,” Arabella said. “All tortoiseshell cats are female.”

“Anyway,” said the man near to them who’d mentioned Potter, “it’s a very interesting piece, Madam Ficus.”

“Thank you.” Arabella beamed at him.

“There are many things going on in the world,” he said. “A person wants to know how he might become involved.”

“I think,” Arabella said, “that it’s important for art lovers to meet and talk about the work. Like a book club.”

“If I might get a shot?” A photographer pushed her way over and Hermione almost said hullo. It was the same woman who’d shot their wedding. She had the same little necklace on. Before she could ask how Percy was the woman’s eye’s slid over her without recognition and she remembered she wasn’t Hermione Granger. Malfoy now, she supposed. Arabella Figg had recognized her, but she’d expected to see her here. The photographer wasn’t on the lookout.

“Of course.” Arabella stood next to the painting with a broad smile on her face. “Art saves us all.”

The photographer snapped a picture, then another, saying, “People sometimes make the worst faces,” before handing a card over to the man who’d asked about what he could do. “We have a little group you might like,” she said. “Meets every Wednesday. We talk about art. Modern art. Art history.”

“History?” the man asked.

“The past always influences the present,” the photographer said. “People who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it and all that jazz.”

“Imagine having to repeat those medieval things,” Draco said. “Where important people were drawn larger than less important ones.”

“Some parts of the past you don’t want to live again,” Arabella said with a laugh.

The man Hermione had started to think of as Potter-man was studying the card. No one had offered to introduce themselves and it seemed awkward to ask. He frowned and said, “Didn’t you shoot the Malfoy wedding?”

“I did,” the photographer said. “Beautiful event.”

“If you like Death Eaters,” he said. He handed the card back to her. “I don’t think your group and I would be a good fit.”

She refused to accept it. “I think you’d quite like the free exchange of views,” she said. She put a bit of emphasis on ‘free.’ He hesitated and she pushed his hand back toward his chest. “We’ve been planning some public art appreciation events and we need everyone we can get.”

He closed his hand around the card and shoved it into a pocket. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Just not sure I trust someone who cozies up to that lot.”

“At least she didn’t sleep her way in,” someone said. There was a round of laughter that tickled as if it were sophisticated and charming. It sounded just like the laughter Hermione had heard at the Malfoy parties. “Woman had a job to shoot some pictures, she did. I saw them in the _Prophet. _They were nice work.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“The bride, though.”

“Harry Potter’s best friend.”

“Married into that world.”

“Makes you sick.”

“Wonder if she regrets it already.”

“I feel sorry for her.”

“I don’t.” That was the man who’d been so sure the cat in the painting had to be male. “She made her bed. She can sleep in it.”

“I doubt there’s much sleeping involved.”

Another round of laughter and Hermione could feel bile rise in the back of her throat. Draco set a hand on her lower back and she watched Arabella’s mouth tighten in a line so narrow if she’d painted it she’d have had to use the tiniest of brushes. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge,” she said softly. “People are often not what they seem.”

He patted her on the arm. “You’re an artist,” he said, unable to hide how pleased he was to be able to condescend to her about something after she’d slapped him down earlier. “You see the best in everyone. It’s why we love you.”

That might have led to an awkward pause. It might have led to Hermione hexing him under her breath. She’d been running through what charms she could do wandlessly that would sting a bit without really hurting him or giving herself away. A loud slam as the door of the gallery opened and closed interrupted her. She looked up, expecting to be annoyed. The sight of an Auror turned that annoyance into sudden, sharp fear. “There’s been an incident,” he said. 

“What sort of incident?” a woman asked. She had gone from smugly arch art lover to pale and afraid. “Muggles?”

“Sort of,” the Auror said. He scanned the crowd. “A disturbed man has attacked a Muggle shop. He cursed fifteen people before someone contacted us, then ran.”

“Was he… was he a Death Eater?” someone asked.

The Auror frowned. “We don’t know anything yet,” he said. “We’re asking everyone in wizarding establishments to shelter in place until he’s caught.”

“But that could be hours,” a man protested. 

“Then aren’t you lucky you’re in a place with wine,” the Auror snapped. 

Hermione glanced at Draco and he nodded. Whatever else might happen, they needed to leave. The polyjuice would wear off if they didn’t drink more, and neither wanted to be caught sneaking sips from flasks tucked in their pockets. Not with an Auror in the room. He’d take them into custody just to find out who they were, that they’d broken no laws be damned. And it wouldn’t be good for the Ministry to find out the young Malfoy couple were at an art event in disguise. No rules against it, but it looked bad. They couldn’t afford to look bad.

“Are we at least allowed to use the loo?” Hermione asked in a timid voice. She made herself seem as mousy as possible and lifted up her barely touched wine as if to explain her need. The Auror grimaced and she could see him wanting to say no but that was too authoritarian for him to justify. 

“Just don’t be too long,” he said.

She nodded, and linked her hand through Draco’s. “I’m scared,” she said in the same voice. “Walk with me in case he’s back there.”

The Auror visibly rolled his eyes but didn’t stop Draco from escorting her to the back of the gallery and down the hall to where the public loo was. She dropped the act as soon as they were out of sight. He pushed on an exterior door and, when it seemed to be locked, muttered a quick _alohomora__. _It opened.

“Wandless,” she said. “Nice.” 

Out in the alley they both took a deep breath. Hermione could feel the polyjuice start to wear off and reached a hand up to touch her hair. It had stayed in place but it was definitely back to its curly self. “Home?” Draco asked.

A ruckus started by some garbage cans and she nodded. “Side-along me,” she said.

There was a bright flash of light right as he sucked her away into the void of apparition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to sparkleme26 for her generous offer to beta read and salazars, who always saves me from myself and finds my misplaced commas.


	35. Chapter 35

They landed on the front lawn of Malfoy Manor with so much force Hermione stumbled forward and fell. She landed on her hands and knees and let out a sharp, “Fuck,” as her palms scraped along small rocks hiding in the grass. Draco managed to catch himself as he staggered but he was almost as graceless as she was.

“Not your best work,” she said as she stood up. One of the bits of gravel was still pressed into her skin and she picked it out with a grimace. She’d broken skin. It hurt now and would probably hurt for a few days. She could already feel the throb of blood behind the scrape.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was a little distracted.”

She let out a hollow laugh. Distracted was one way to put it. Some kind of magical attack going on, Aurors around, and the clock ticking on their disguises. She hadn’t been in the best mental place herself. Still wasn’t if she was being honest. “What do you think happened.”

“Some crazy?” he said. She could tell he didn’t care. What was one more lunatic shooting up the place when you lived with the threat of violence and torture every day? “Can we get out of these clothes? I don’t know what these trousers are made out of, but I’m pretty sure it’s giving me a rash.”

“Poor baby,” she said. “Has to wear cheap fabric.” She was eager to get out of hers too, though. Just the feeling of pretending to be another person itched at her soul. Having to stand there and not react as people talked about her made her want to take a long, hot shower. 

She hooked an arm through Draco’s and smiled at him. Of all the things she had expected in this adventure, that he would become the safe place hadn’t crossed her mind.

He frowned at her palm. “Your poor hand,” he said. “I think I have a potion for that.”

“It’ll be fine,” she said. She rolled her eyes. As if a little skinned palm meant anything anymore. As pain went, this was trivial. She was still warmed by his concern and that warmth made her lean a little more closely against him as they made their way back across the lawns in the dark and into the Manor. Back into their home.

She’d go visit Arabella in the morning. She had to know what had happened. She could find some pretext to go out. Shopping, maybe. Malfoy women were supposed to look polished and that seemed like the perfect excuse. 

The only problem was that in the morning, Narcissa wanted to go with her. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Hermione asked. Her hand was halfway to the marmalade jar when Narcissa said smoothly that shopping sounded wonderful and there was a little jewellery shop she’d been eager to take a look at.

“Surely you don’t mind if I come with you,” Narcissa said. She raised a brow in a gesture so much like Draco’s Hermione had the brief thought that this family stamped their genes down with frightening determination. Any child she and Draco might have would be sure to raise her brows in the exact same way. And she’d probably find herself cornered just as neatly.

“Of course, I don’t,” she said. She had no choice. It was the only option even if the very last thing she wanted was to be seen publicly chummy with Narcissa Malfoy. People already hated her. Whatever doubts they might have – whatever pity they might feel for her – would be gone if she spent the day arm in arm with the wife of a known Death Eater.

Any hope she might have had Narcissa had any intention of being discreet vanished within ten minutes of apparating to Diagon Alley. She strode through the streets with her nose so high in the air Hermione was surprised she didn’t trip. She sniffed at anyone she considered a lesser order. She refused to go into a coffee shop because, “The service is poor and the hygiene is worse. There’s no reason for a magical establishment to not be immaculate. It isn’t as if we have to physically scrub things to get them clean the way Muggles do.”

She said Muggles the way some people said, “Mudbloods.” Hermione cringed at the tone, and cringed even more because it wasn’t as if her mother-in-law tried to keep her voice down. If anything, she projected it into the air so everyone on the block would hear.

“Now,” she said, physically dragging Hermione into a jewellery shop. “This is the sort of place a woman of quality shops.”

The door shut behind them and Hermione looked around. The shop had dark shades over the windows so no one could see in. The carpeting was thick, the light dim, the glass cases of pretty things immaculate, and the silence heavy. “Mrs. Malfoy,” a woman behind the counter said. “Malfoys. What a pleasure it is to see you.”

Narcissa did the unthinkable and took the hands of a woman she had to consider beneath her – a mere shop owner – and leaned over to kiss first one cheek than the other. “It’s been too long,” she said.

“Indeed.”

Narcissa turned to Hermione. “I usually spend several hours making my selections,” she said. 

Hermione braced herself for the dullest morning she could imagine when the jeweler said, “And I always lock the store for my best customers. It’s quite expected.”

When Hermione didn’t visibly react, Narcissa added, “Which means if you need to go visit someone – an artist, perhaps, or an escaped felon – you have a window of time no one will question.”

“Why would I visit an escaped felon?” Hermione asked a bit weakly.

“No reason,” Narcissa said. She cast a quick tempus charm and glanced at it. “If you could return by noon I would appreciate it. We have reservations at the new Italian restaurant.”

“The perfect place to show off this, perhaps,” said the shop owner. She pulled a hair clip from her cabinet and Hermione gasped. The thing was encrusted with diamonds and sparkled even in the low light. 

“Are those real?” she asked.

Narcissa gave her a look of utter disgust.

“Right,” Hermione said. Of course they were. “I’ll be back by noon.”

“I thought you said she was clever,” she heard the jeweler say as she apparated away, landing on Arabella Figg’s lawn. With the irritation of that little comment still burning in her ears she strode across the grass and raised a hand to knock.

Arabella opened the door, looked around nervously, and stepped off to the side so she could slide in. The house, as usual, smelled of cat. Hermione supposed there was a limit to how many a person could have before that became inevitable. One of them, a little grey puss, regarded her before trotting away with a disdainful twitch of her tail.

“Don’t mind her.” Percy pulled her into a hug. “She’s been in a mood since I took her dead mouse away.”

“Let me get you something,” Arabella said.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said. She stepped back and studied Percy. Rage still churned in the depths of his eyes but he’d become a bit more contained. His shoulders didn’t twitch with the urge to strike out. His hands didn’t tremble. Even his tattoos seemed calm. “You look good,” she said.

“Undermining authority turns out to be good for high blood pressure,” he said. He gestured to a chair and, afraid to brush off the cat hair, Hermione sat down. She hoped she wouldn’t stand up with her arse covered in grey fuzz. “Have you seen the paper?”

When she shook her head, Percy pulled a copy of the morning’s _Prophet_ off a pile and handed it to her. “You’d better read,” he said.

_Pureblood Family Man Has Breakdown, Curses Nine_

She looked up. It was what she had come for, really, but now that she had it she didn’t want to read the article. She could predict how it would go. It was so sad. Tragic. He was ill. He needed help. If it had been her the headline would have started _Mudblood Terrorist. _Percy took it back from her and summed it up grimly. “Wasn’t a Death Eater but had a house filled with Death Eater stuff.”

“Ugh.” There didn’t seem anything more articulate to say about that. Even Lucius Malfoy had the sense to know his former colleagues were not admirable. 

“Exactly,” Percy said. “Cursed a bunch of Muggles while ranting about blood purity.”

“Off his head,” she said.

“You’d have to be.” Arabella Figg emerged from the kitchen and set a tray down on top of the pile of newspapers. It teetered a bit before settling down. Hermione took the cup of tea she was offered but managed to wave off the biscuits. This reminded her rather unpleasantly of school days spent with Hagrid trying to pretend she didn’t hate his cooking. 

“Have to be nuts?” Percy asked. When Arabella nodded looked back down at the paper. “I’m sure he is, but this dwells a lot on his family. He’s a distant cousin of the Blacks.”

“See,” said Arabella. “Crazy.”

“He’s been out of work,” said Percy. “Under strain. He’d had an affair with a Muggle girl and she ended it.”

“Smart,” said Hermione. “She knew something was up.”

“There’s just a whole lot of excuses,” Percy said. He set the paper back down. “But the Ministry is playing into our hands so I’ll make hay out of it.”

“How so?”

“They put the whole area on lockdown,” Percy said. “People were not happy.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Hermione said.

“The grumbling at the opening,” Arabella said. “We ran out of wine.”

Hermione had to smother a grin at that. Percy saw her mouth twitch anyway and he smiled at her in return. “I heard all about it,” he said. “In detail.”

“It all sold,” Arabella said. She took a smug sip of her tea. “I had no idea revolution could be so profitable.”

“Percy?” Hermione asked. “I have to be back by lunch. Narcissa is showing me off at some fancy restaurant.”

“Oh, the pain of being forced to eat good food,” he said, but his eyes crinkled in a way she knew meant he was amused rather than resentful. He leaned forward a bit in his seat. “We’ll be playing it up,” he said. “In the papers, and I’ve got about a dozen people recruited to go around to pubs and spew the lines. How important it is for law and order. Can’t go about complaining about rights. Need the Aurors to come down hard on people.”

“And also, a bit about how he can’t really be blamed,” Arabella said. “Good man, driven round the bend by stress. That’ll work out well for us long term”

“It’s all so gross.” Hermione understood the logic. Shove it down people’s throats until they choked. The Ministry was good. Good, good, good, good, good. The eroding of freedoms was necessary. Every lie they told you was for your own benefit, and, hey, you were a sucker for believing it in the first place. It still all left a sour taste in her mouth. “I wish we could just -.”

“Tried that,” Percy said. “Being heroes didn’t work. Where’s Harry now, the champion of the people?”

“In France,” Hermione admitted grudgingly. 

“And how long did it take people to turn on you?”

“Not long,” she said. “Though I look bad.”

“First, we push oppression is good until people are on the verge of snapping,” said Percy. “Then we expose all the corruption.”

“And you think it will work?” Hermione asked. 

“We’ll make you loved by the masses yet,” he said. “Bravely smuggling information out from behind enemy lines.”

“A peaceful march in the streets,” Arabella said. “All those art boys can’t wait to organize it.”

“And then our coup,” Percy said. His eyes glittered. “If you still think you can point him at the right spot.”

Hermione looked down at her hands. They shook a little. She was afraid sometimes that she wouldn’t have the courage to go through with it. It had been easier to be brave when she’d been ignorant of how much pain magic could cause. “I do,” she said. “Next big party at the Malfoy’s, I’ll bait the trap. He’ll be furious because I’m the god-killer’s mouthpiece or whatever the hell it is he calls me.”

“Try not to die,” Percy said.

She mustered a weak smile. “Always a good goal,” she said.

Percy stood up and she stood up and there was that horrible awkward moment when it’s time to leave and first no one steps toward the door and then everyone does at once. He grabbed her into another hug. “Thank you for coming by,” he said.

“Have to stay in touch,” she said. She knew it was irrational. It wasn’t safe. It was smarter to stay with Narcissa. She hadn’t had to come. Hadn’t had to learn anything. Hadn’t had to tell them anything. She had just needed to see a face from before and be reminded she was still herself. Not a whore who’d sold herself for safety. Not a turncoat. Still brave. Still good.

Or good enough, anyway.

“Ron’s an idiot,” Percy said.

“No,” she said. He was just one of a very large group of people who assumed she’d become something abominable.

“He should have believed,” Percy said. He kissed her forehead before stepping back. “I’m glad Malfoy has more faith in you.”

“See you in the streets,” she said, then apparated back to the jewellery store.

Narcissa frowned at her. “You have cat hair on your trousers,” she said disapprovingly. She fastened the diamond clip in Hermione’s hair and, with her hands freed, pulled out her wand and uttered a charm. In a single whoosh, Hermione’s trousers were pressed, her hair curly in all the best ways, and all the cat hair was gone. 

If only everything could get cleaned up as easily.


	36. Chapter 36

Dinner that night was torture. Not, Hermione thought as she poured another glass of wine, the literal torture she’d feared when she’d first arrived in this house. It was the social torture of a drunk Lucius, a pleasantly vague Dolohov who’d stopped by because he so missed darling Narcissa, and a Draco on edge. 

Dolohov tended to do that to people.

“That’s a lovely hair clip,” he said to Hermione. “Is it new?”

She smiled tightly. “We bought it today,” she said. 

“It’s good to look the part,” he said. He forked a mouthful of salad up and chewed for a bit while everyone sat in uncomfortable silence. “Some people, of course, are never going to accept you.” He glanced rather meaningfully at Lucius.

“Hermione is a lovely daughter,” Lucius said. He didn’t even choke on the words. Hermione felt a weird burst of fondness for the old liar. When he’d decided to go down a course, he stuck to it, and if his wife had married his only son off to a woman he’d considered barely worthy of notice only a few months before, well, he would smile about that until hell froze and act as if he’d never once uttered a slur or sniffed that people like her had the temerity to exist. She had to give him points for consistency.

Of course, that stubborn consistency was how he’d ended up a Death Eater. It wasn’t wholly virtuous.

“She is lovely,” Dolohov agreed. Her skin crawled as he let his eyes roam over her face and hair. “Still, you know how people are.”

“Do tell me how they are,” Narcissa said.

“They feel unsafe,” he said. “Muggle-borns make them nervous.” He smiled and all his teeth gleamed. They were very white. Someone needed to tell him to back off the whitening charms. A little was good. Too much looked creepy. “It’s hardly your fault, my dear. People do have their prejudices.”

“Huh,” Hermione said. She pushed some of the potatoes around her plate. “I would have thought people were uncomfortable because I was in the Order.” 

“There’s that too,” he agreed. “But winds shift and what was in fashion one year is out again the next. People see the Order as tired rebels clinging to an outdated cause today but next week?” He shrugged. “Who knows.”

“But I’ll always be a Mudblood,” she said.

“And a Malfoy.” Dolohov said as though that settled the matter. He turned to Narcissa, the physical movement making it clear that one topic had ended and it was time to begin another. Hermione shoved one of the potatoes in her mouth so chewing would give her an excuse not to speak. She was sure it was perfectly seasoned. It felt like sawdust. “Did you hear about the Lestranges, darling Cissa?”

Narcissa’s poise didn’t falter. “Do tell,” she said as if her own sister hadn’t been married into that family. As if they were strangers she was idly curious about. Hermione recalled Lucius’ contempt for the brothers and flicked a glance at him. He caught her eyes and twisted his mouth into a smile. 

“They have always been a family of great passions,” Dolohov said. He paused as if he were concerned about bruising a delicate sensibility. “Will it hurt you to hear?”

“Because of dear Bella?” Narcissa raised a brow. “I always thought they were well matched. She was an intense, passionate girl who grew into an equally formidable woman.”

“It seems Rodolphus might not have been wholly… faithful,” Dolohov said.

“Oh?” Narcissa patted her mouth with her napkin. 

“He has a child,” Lucius said blandly. “Or so he claims. I generally assume that meant he had sex at least once.”

“Archibald doesn’t really look like… Madam Lestrange did,” Hermione admitted. 

Dolohov smiled at them with seeming pity for their naivety. “I think it might have been a bit more than that,” he said. “He seems to have catted around much of London, leaving a trail of obliviated Muggles in his wake.”

Lucius made a rude noise somewhat akin to a peacock coughing up a bit of bird seed it didn’t like. “Lucky girls,” he said. Hermione narrowed her eyes and he elaborated. “Would you want to remember having to fuck that loon? Because I would not.”

She smothered her laugh with a quick sip from her glass.

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this,” Narcissa said. “Do you expect me to avenge my sister’s honor?”

“He and Amycus were apparently quite a pair,” Dolohov said. “Alecto too, rest her soul. They made quite a trail it seems. Hard to believe good purebloods would be so uncouth but you never know about people, do you?”

“Did someone write a book?” Hermione asked. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why do we care about this?”

“He’s a gossip,” Lucius said. He squinted at Dolohov and something akin to disgust settled around his mouth where it hung out with the line of wine along his upper lip. “Some kind of catty old fishwife.”

Hermione had observed before in her life that Lucius Malfoy was a deeply unpleasant person. He was a snob, and had left ‘morally dubious’ behind years ago, passed ‘amoral’ on the road and taken up the company of flat out ‘immoral.’ What regrets he had about his actions as Death Eater seemed wholly focused on what the impact had been on his wife and son. She could imagine him stepping over a bleeding puppy in the street, irate the thing might have dirtied his shoes. He was, as her mother would have said, a piece of work. He hadn’t turned that nastiness on her recently but even half-drunk and needing a shave he could use scorn like a weapon. He used it now. 

“Cough it up, Dolohov, or go back to pretending the girls in _Witch Weekly_ would give you the time of day.”

Antonin Dolohov had survived the reign of Voldemort and, where Malfoy had withered, he’d thrived. He didn’t so much as twitch at the insult. “Not keeping your finger on the pulse of power was always one of your flaws, Lucius.”

Lucius snorted.

“Hubris,” Dolohov said softly. “Hubris brings down the greatest, my old friend. It brought down the Dark Lord. Never discount the masses.”

“Or the schoolboy,” Hermione said.

Dolohov smiled at her. She kept her jaw from clenching in the face of that with more effort than she cared to admit. If Lucius was a piece of work, he was the whole puzzle.

Or maybe that was Yaxley.

“Indeed,” Dolohov said. “Whatever became of dear Harry Potter, anyway?”

“I think he’d on the continent,” she said. “You would probably know better than I.”

“On the continent, working with that Molly Weasley and old Moody,” Dolohov said. He sounded as if he were working an idea out in his head but she’d seen grandstanding before and she knew he had come prepared to deliver whatever tidbit he was about to drop on her. She hated being in agreement with Lucius Malfoy but she wished he would just get on with it, say what he’d come to say, and leave.

She decided she wasn’t going to think about his possibly wanking off to _Witch Weekly_. 

“Anyway,” he said, picking up his wine glass and swirling the expensive vintage around. “Someone printed up a pamphlet on their escapes. No pictures, for which I’m sure we’re all grateful, but enough salacious details to start up quite a bit of pub chatter.”

Hermione shrugged. “So?” she said. “I could print up a broadsheet saying you turned into a cat on the full moon. Anyone can print anything.”

“Yes,” he said, “but _this_, it turns out, seems to have touched a nerve. _This_ has made the good witches and wizards of Britain start to talk about how Dumbledore never behaved that way, how the Weasleys were a good family. Poor, but you never heard a whisper of this nonsense.”

Hermione had no real response to this. She’d sent off endless details of the Carrows and Lestranges. Some of it had been more than distasteful. She wouldn’t have expected their sexual appetites to become the wedge that pried them off the Death Eater block, but that did have the taste of Moody to it. She’d never been quite comfortable with that magical eye, spinning around, seeing through things. 

“You were smart to marry your son off to this lovely young woman,” Dolohov said. He pushed his chair back. “And, whatever else you may be, Lucius, we all know you’ve never strayed. I suppose Roddy is fortunate dear Bella is not more.”

Narcissa’s expression became quite cool. “Do explain,” she said.

“Well,” Dolohov said, “she’d kill him.”

“De mortuis nihil si bonum,” Narcissa said. It sounded like a warning and Dolohov’s suggestion he could read the winds of power wasn’t wholly false because he stood up, nodded his head in her direction in what might have been an apology and moved toward the door.

“One more thing,” he said.

“Oh, for the love of -,” Lucius said. 

“While we’ve all been spared photographs in the pamphlet someone charmingly titled _The Downfall of Walpurgis_, I have seen two of your lovely faces in a picture lately, and with Yaxley in a foul mood because of this scandal, well, I’d expect an unpleasant visit.”

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again. 

“A warning seemed fair,” Dolohov said.

And then he was gone.

“I hope a peacock attacks him,” Lucius muttered.

“Draco?” Narcissa asked.

“We might have been photographed leaving that Ficus woman’s art exhibit,” he said slowly. Hermione closed her eyes. She’d been so relieved they’d made it away, that they hadn’t gotten caught in an Auror dragnet with their polyjuice wearing off, she hadn’t stopped to worry about that flash of light right before they apparated away. She should have. She should have tracked that down. How was she supposed to keep this many things in her head at once?

“It’s hardly a crime to go to an art gallery,” Lucius said. 

“It can be when the artist in question is subversive.” Yaxley strode into the room, Amycus Carrow at his heels. Four goons came in behind him. They were outnumbered. He’d brought enough people none of them would be able to stand up to him, but not so many he was expecting a battle. He saw her counting them. Saw her come to that conclusion. His smile reminded Hermione of a girl she’d known in primary. She’d been a pretty little thing. Her clothing had always been immaculate and every teacher had loved her. She’d been smart and sweet and every adult had good things to say about her. She’d also pulled the wings off flies and made the unpopular boys eat them.

“It wasn’t very good,” Hermione said.

“No,” Yaxley agreed. He pulled off first one leather glove and then the other and handed them to Amycus, who took them with greedy eagerness. “Not that I know much about art, but it seemed second rate to me.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” Amycus said.

Hermione tried to put a politely inquisitive look on her face but something had settled in the bottom of her stomach. Something bad. Something heavy. “Oh?” she asked.

“We burned it,” Yaxley said. “I’ve been told the paint made an awful smell, but we just can’t allow art that questions the state to be paraded around.”

“Even bad art?” Narcissa asked.

Yaxley gave a little shrug. “What makes art good is so subjective,” he said. “But it should uplift people’s spirits, don’t you think? It should remind us what is unique about wizarding Britain. Why we are better.”

Hermione had to squelch the urge to ask, “But are we.”

“We Malfoys usually stick to family portraits,” Lucius said.

“A habit I would encourage your newest daughter to adopt,” Yaxley said. He sounded regretful. Hermione didn’t believe it for a moment. “I was able to silence the news that you had been at that disgraceful show,” he said. “I comment your discretion in going in disguise. I’m sure getting out as a young, ‘It’ couple is hard, but you weren’t careful enough and, as a Malfoy, everything you do reflects on the regime.”

“We will be more careful in the future,” Draco said.

“I know,” Amycus could barely manage to contain his cackle.

“I think it’s good for a husband to chastise his wife, don’t you think?” Yaxley asked. Lucius had the sense not to answer that question, and Narcissa’s gaze became so chilly Hermione was surprised frost didn’t bloom on the windows. “A bit old fashioned of me, of course, but we’re an old-fashioned country, going back to traditional ways.”

“Tradition is often a good basis for life,” Draco said. He knew his lines and she could see the way it hurt him to utter them but he was going to play along. “It’s what gives us strength as a country.”

“It does,” Yaxley said. “Which is why you will now pull out your wand and crucio your wife to punish her for taking you to that art exhibit and almost being caught.”

Draco’s hand shook as he moved to draw his wand out of the pocket at his side. Hermione sucked in air through her nose and tried to calm herself. “Do it,” she mouthed at him. There was no way out. He’d brought too many backups.

He looked sick but he leveled the wand at her and said the word. “_Crucio.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘De mortuis nihil sed bonum’ loosely translates to ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead.’


	37. Chapter 37

The spell hit and Hermione twisted under the pain. She’d endured it before. She’d felt it from the hands of a master of the art. This was not as bad. It was still terrible. She gasped, and tears came, and she bit her tongue so hard she could taste the blood. But it was not as bad as it could have been. She was able to ease herself out of the chair so she could lie on the rug. She was able to breathe. She was able to exist as a person separate from the agony.

And that person who stayed clear headed and calm and weirdly, horribly aware of everything that was going on even as her body spasmed, looked at Yaxley’s shoes. They were good shoes. Well made. Expensive. She had an eye for that now that she’s lived with the Malfoys. 

She looked forward to the day she saw them coated with his own blood.

“I think another bout,” she heard him say. “One wants the lesson to be careful to stick.”

Draco’s hand must have shaken. She could feel it in the way the spell trembled at is coursed across her skin. She was being flayed alive. A clamp was tightening slowly around her head, squeezing her until she would surely burst. She knew if she moved it would become so much worse and so she held herself as still as she could and stared at those black leather shoes until they turned and walked away. She could hear Amycus Carrow’s laugh and decided she’d kill him too. She’d kill him personally. She’d taken down his sister. It was only a matter of time before he found himself on the wrong end of her wand. 

When the door clicked shut there was a long pause where no one in the room seemed to dare to move, and then everyone sprang into action. Draco dropped down by her side and held her head up. “I’m so sorry,” he said. His face was wet and he was so pale he looked sickly. “Oh, god, Hermione, I’m so sorry.”

Lucius handed him a vial. “Pain potion,” she could hear her father-in-law say. He sounded tired. “Severus used to make it up for us. It’s customized to deal with that curse.”

The very act of swallowing made her want to gag. The potion stank, and feel rotten on her tongue, like milk that had gone bad. She tried to twist her head away rather than let Draco pour any more into her mouth but he managed to pry her jaw open and get it in. “I know,” he said. “It’s bad, but it does work.”

It did. It wasn’t miraculous. She’d experienced magical cures far more instant and wondrous. But it slid down into the aches of her bones and as it passed it took the worst of the pain with it. She wasn’t better. But she’d be able to stand. She’d be able to walk to her room and climb into her bed and sleep until time did what the magic of Severus Snape could not.

Narcissa held a crystal glass of water to her lips. When had she knelt down? Who would ever imagine Narcissa Malfoy kneeling for anyone? “This will take the taste away,” she said. “I think he made it that bad on purpose.”

Hermione gulped it down gratefully. Clear, cold, clean water. She let Draco hook an arm around her and help her up. She couldn’t even muster the energy to thank Lucius or Narcissa. She couldn’t even speak. She just let Draco lead her up and away to her room, to their bed, to the blessed silence of sleep.

When she woke, he was sitting in a chair, hands folded, watching her. She felt groggy. Her eyes wanted to close back up again but she was afraid if she did she’d be back on the dining room floor. She could still see Yaxley’s shoes walking away. She could still taste the potion. She forced herself to sit up. She was Hermione Granger. Hermione Malfoy. Hermione. She was Hermione and she had been tortured before at the hands of a woman who hated her. She had survived that. She would survive this pale echo.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. She could see his eyes were red. 

“Had to be done,” she said. “They outnumbered us.”

“They won’t always,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, and that was it. That was enough. They would make sure this ended.

“I have soup,” Draco said. He waved a hand toward a tray and she could see that he did. “Restorative.”

“Please tell me Severus Snape didn’t write the recipe,” she said.

That tricked a laugh out of Draco. “It is vile,” he said.

“The soup?” she asked.

He laughed again. “The potion,” he said. “This is a Malfoy recipe. Very French. Broth, vegetables, and herbs that have to be fresh or the ghost of my great-grandmother will appear and glare at you.”

She smiled. She could feel the expression was weak but it was there. “I wouldn’t want to antagonize your great-grandmother,” she said. 

“Terrifying woman, or so I understand,” he agreed. He levitated the tray toward her and she picked up the spoon. Her first bite was tentative. Her second less so. Draco’s great-grandmother might have been terrifying, but she had known how to make soup and she’d passed that art down. 

“How did you…?” she asked. You had to mean it to do an unforgivable. Well, you had to mean it to do any magic. The words, the gestures, they were just a way of focusing intent. But the stronger the spell the more you needed that intention to be clear and unforgivable were very strong spells.

“Imagined it was him,” Draco said. He looked at her through a fringe of hair. Those grey eyes were cold and there was a stubborn set to the way he thrust his jaw out. “It was a trick we had that last year. Focus on the Carrows, point the wand at your victim.”

She nodded. It was clever. Her trick had always been to mean the longer-term result. She might not _mean_ that she wanted to hurt the child in front of her – and her mind flashed back uncomfortably to Archibald Lestrange and what she’d done to him – but, oh, how she meant it when she thought about taking the Death Eaters down. 

Compromise makes monsters of us all.

She took another bite of the soup. “It’s good,” she said.

“I know.” Draco tucked his hands under his legs and watched her. Being stared at while she ate should have seemed weird. If Ron had done it she’d have reached a hand toward her mouth, sure she had a bit of parsley stuck to her lip. This just felt cared for. “My mother used to make it for me when,” he hesitated. “When Voldemort was around.”

“Your mother made this?” Hermione tried not to let the surprise show in her voice but by now Draco knew her too well for her to hide that. He quirked a brow up at her assumption that Narcissa couldn’t cook, or wouldn’t cook, and she could feel the heat creep up her neck as she blushed. “Well, it’s very good,” she said.

“I’m not sure she’s ever failed at anything she’s really wanted to do,” Draco said.

“The Malfoy women are terrifying,” Hermione said.

He regarded her steadily. “They are,” he agreed. 

That made her almost drop her spoon. “God, I hated you,” she said instead. It was the absolute worst thing you could possibly say to your husband as he watched you eat soup his mother had made but as she looked at him - grey eyes, sharp features, and keen mind – it was as if he were an overlay of the boy he’d been. She was reminded of a souvenir book for tourists she’d seen in Rome. A current ruin was printed on the page and a plastic sheet folded over it so you could see the way historians thought it must have looked when Rome had ruled the world. It had had the Coliseum, the Forum, the Senate. She’d been fascinated and had lifted the plastic sheets up over and over again. Past. Present. Past. Present. 

She could almost do the same now with Draco. Past. The spoilt boy who’d never known a moment’s pain. The world had been his. He’d loved Quidditch and cakes and himself. He’d been a horror. She’d probably been much the same way. Smarter than all the other children. Surer of herself. Of course she’d had magic. She hadn’t even been really surprised to discover that. She was special. She was different. No wonder they’d hated each other. No one likes to see a hint of their own flaws in another person.

Past. The spoiled children who’d thought the world was theirs.

Present. The man who knew every ache the torture had left in her bones because he’d felt them too. 

Future.

“I wasn’t that fond of you either,” he said. He smiled and the shadows under his cheekbones shifted and lightened. “You were such a brat.”

“You just didn’t like I had better marks than you.”

“Yes,” he said, the smile making his eyes crease and sparkle. “I’m sure that was it.”

She met his gaze. How had it become so easy? She pushed the tray away and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. The movement hurt. It was the pain you felt after a bout of influenza, though. She was weak and sore and not at all happy with either of those things. She wasn’t lying on the floor wanting to die. “I need a bath,” she said. He held an arm out to steady her and she let him help her up. 

“A bath,” he said, “then a walk to the roses?”

“Roses?” she asked. It was winter. 

“Wizard,” he said, not the slightest bit confused what her question meant. “If I want my wife to sit in the sunshine in a rose garden, she will.”

She tucked some of his hair back behind one ear. “You’re a good man,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m far too willing to do things that are,” he paused and she could see him considering his words. “Not good. As you felt last night.”

But she shook her head. They’d both done terrible things. She wasn’t going to allow that to redefine them as terrible people. They were people who did what they had to and she’d lie and scheme and, yes, torture and betray if that was what it took to get to victory. Let them all hate her. Let the Weasleys assume she’d run to the enemy’s bed. Let those self-righteous pricks at the art show assume she was a traitor to the cause. If she won – if they won – all those people could hate her from the comfort of a free Britain. “If we stayed pure,” she said, “we’d lose.”

“Must be nice to be Harry Potter,” he said. “All good forever.”

She smiled wanly. “Not really,” she said.

“He gets to be the savior.”

“But we get the rose garden,” she said. “You promised me a rose garden and, just as soon as I’m clean, I intend to make you deliver.”

“I can promise you a lot of things,” he said. He didn’t waste time on empty words, though. He turned the taps and held a hand under the water until he was satisfied with the temperature. He poured scented oil in. He helped her take off the clothes she still had on from the night before. 

“Burn those,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale sweat. Fear and pain could somehow seep out your pores. You could clean away the smell of exercise or a hot day. The reek of torture never went away.

The bath was the perfect temperature, and she eased herself down into the water and let her head rest against the rim of the tub. Light streamed in from a window and a chandelier hung overhead. Someone had set a vase of fresh orange blossoms on a shelf that seemed to have not purpose other than holding pretty things. She didn’t even need to look to know that there would be a pile of towels. They would be fluffy. They would be folded. Not a single one would have even the hint of a frayed edge. She hadn’t grown up poor but the way the Malfoys lived was something else. “Being rich isn’t the worst thing in the world,” she said.

“If you can look past the lousy company,” Draco said. He pulled up a stool and sat behind her and she let out a sigh that sounded awfully lot like bliss when he slipped his hands to the base of her skull and began to massage away the remaining pressure. 

“Keep doing that,” she said as she closed her eyes. “Keep doing that and you’ll never get rid of me.”

His thumbs pressed into the sides of her neck and he slid them up along the tight muscles. “That’s the idea,” he said. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her temple. “I never want you to go.”

“I won’t,” she said. She pried open one eye, tipped her head back, and looked at him. “The soup,” she said. “The towels. I’d be a fool to give that up.”

“The rose garden,” he said.

“You.”

His fingers trembled against her neck and the massage paused for a moment before he said, “Well, we both know you have bouts of poor judgement but I’m not above taking advantage of one of them if it benefits me.”

“Slytherin,” she said knowingly.

“Exactly.” He returned to his massage and she closed her eyes again and let the water leech the rest of the pain from her body. She needed to find out why someone had thought it was a good idea to spread rumors about the sexual histories of the Lestranges and Carrows. She needed to check in with Percy. She needed to take this whole, corrupt edifice down. But for just a few minutes it was okay to relax. She’d take this bath. She’d walk in the rose garden. She’d plot Yaxley’s downfall. 

Just as soon as Draco Malfoy stopped doing that magic thing with his thumbs on her neck.

He didn’t stop.

Maybe being temporarily delayed by marital duties wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

It wasn’t.


	38. Chapter 38

After they were done, Hermione and Draco walked out to the rose garden. The sky was clear, the sun bright, and the day had the bitter chill of midwinter. She could feel the air with each breath. Cold and harsh but also cleansing. 

When they reached the low wall that surrounded the roses, Hermione hoisted herself up onto it. All the bushes were brown stalks. She’d have thought they were dead if she’d just seen them without context. Even within the bounds of a wall with paths and a shed they seemed lost. “Poor things,” she said. “This isn’t a good time of year for roses.”

Draco pulled himself up after her and they sat, feet swinging. A twitch of his wand and a murmured incantation and the air warmed so it was comfortable. Another spell and the branch nearest her burst into bloom, red and pink and even one yellow flower coming into bud, opening, and flirting with her, all in the matter of moments. “Aren’t you pretty,” she said to one. It dipped its heavy head as though agreeing.

“Someone’s better.”

The acid tone announced Amycus Carrow. “Did Yaxley let you off your leash?” Hermione asked. Her fingers itched to grab at her wand but she’d be damned if she’d let this misbegotten bastard know he had any effect on her at all. She didn’t reach for her wand in the presence of shopkeepers or servants or animals and she wouldn’t give Amycus Carrow the satisfaction of seeing her reach for it now.

At least, not until she planned to use it.

“Unlike you, I don’t wear one,” Carrow said. He sneered with such generic malice Hermione wondered if he’d been studying up, using bad Muggle horror films as his model.

“We’re not into that,” Draco said. His sneer channeled aristocratic disdain and subtle contempt and the implication something in the neighborhood smelled bad but he was too polite to say anything. “Malfoy women tend to not be exactly,” he paused as if searching for the word. “Submissive.”

Carrow let out a mean laugh. It showed his teeth which was a shame. You’d think magical dentistry would be better. “That wasn’t what was going on last time you two sat on that little wall.”

“Did you fall for that?” Hermione asked keeping her voice light. She would be amused. She would be amused by this rotten prick if it killed her. “I didn’t think it was especially realistic, but I never went in for acting in school. Draco?”

“I always liked games better,” he said. “Quidditch. Football. Gobstones. Theatre’s nice, but not really where my talents lie.”

“I guess you don’t need to be a R.A.D.A. girl when your audience is, well, not very discerning.”

“RADA?” Carrow asked.

“A Muggle school,” she said. “For actors.”

“She’s saying you’re an idiot,” Draco said. “That you missed we were faking.”

Amycus Carrow’s jaw looked even thicker as he thrust it forward and his scowl deeper. “Didn’t look fake to me,” he said.

“I know,” Hermione said. She let out a sigh she had to admit to herself was theatrical. “It suited us for you to think we were at odds, that I was a victim.”

“I’m honestly surprised they bought it,” Draco said. “We didn’t even try to keep it up.”

“We didn’t,” she agreed. She pulled her wand out and rolled it between her palms. The wood felt good. It was power and security and a reminder that she was damn good at this. She always had been. “But it seemed unrealistic. Me? A victim?”

“A bit of a stretch, I admit,” Draco said. “More likely would have been you burning the place to the ground if I put one hand on you in a way you didn’t like.”

“I did set Snape on fire once,” she said.

“You did?”

“Well, his cloak.” She pointed her wand at Amycus. “Still counts, I think.”

“I have to admit I agree,” Draco said.

Amycus was looking from one of them to the other. The rapid pace of their banter had left him struggling to keep up and he fell back on the one thing he could be sure of. “Stupid Mudblood,” he said. “You don’t belong.”

She swept her wand through the air. Sectrumsempra was a nasty spell but remembering Snape had brought it to mind and it did get the job done. Well, it got the job done slowly but after last night she was in the mood to make this hurt. The line of blood that appeared on Amycus Carrow’s face was shallow. She’d controlled the cut. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“You bitch,” he hissed as his hand went to the blood on his face. “I’ll teach you -.”

“Nothing,” she said. “Expelliarmus.”

His wand flew toward them and Draco snatched it from the air. She caught his eye and he shrugged. He’d always been a good Seeker. It hadn’t been his fault he’d been stuck facing off against Harry, one of the truly great Quidditch players. “Nicely done,” she said.

“Well, I can’t let you have all the fun.”

“Mmm,” she said. She slashed her wand through the air again and this time it was Amycus Carrow’s arm she sliced into, and this time she went a little deeper. “I do think there will be a little teaching going on here, but I won’t be the student.” Another slash. “I don’t think I have anything to learn from you.”

Amycus Carrow had a lot of qualities, she was sure. He was brutish, loyal, and stupid. If you needed a man to follow you around and look looming and intimidating, he was your man. Wandless magic, however, wasn’t something he’d ever mastered. That much was clear. He took a step toward her, staggering and violent, and she flicked her wand again. “_Petrificus totalus,_” she said blandly. He immediately stiffened and fell down, nothing but a board toppling when the carpenter lets it go.

“You really aren’t very good at this,” she said. She stepped forward and nudged him with her toe. “How did you think this would go?”

“I had no idea you held him in such high esteem,” Draco said. When she looked at him, he cocked his brows. “Thinking,” he said. “You assume he does it?”

There didn’t seem to be any real evidence that the man lying on the ground in front of her had ever done any such thing. She remembered the blood crusted on Neville’s face at the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts. He’d stopped even bothering to wash it off. She remembered the way he’d laughed the night before as Draco had tortured her. “How bad was it?” she asked softly. She glanced at Draco. “No one likes to talk about it, but that last year. How bad was it?”

His jaw tightened. She could see him have to steady his breathing. “It was bad enough,” he said. The words were very controlled. “You were fortunate to have missed it.”

Everything looked fortunate from the other side, she supposed. She pointed her wand at the grass and excavated a neat grave. She’d gotten good at that with the Order. They’d lost so many people. Good people. Witches and wizards who would never be famous the way Harry was, or infamous the way she had become. Just good people who saw what was happening in a country they loved and wanted to stop it. Just good people who’d died.

“Kill him first,” she asked Draco, “or bury him alive?”

People couldn’t really change their expressions when they were petrified. Somehow, though, Amycus’ face reflected the horror of that choice. She squatted down and smiled at him. “I’m going to kill you all,” she said softly. “You and Yaxley and your whole corrupt edifice.”

“That means the structure you’ve built to support yourselves,” Draco said from above her. The drawling condescension in his voice filled her with a wild cruelty she had to tamp down. She wanted to torture Carrow. She wanted to make him hurt the way he’d hurt her, and the way he’d hurt Draco, and the way he’d hurt every scared first year at Hogwarts who’d gone to magic school and learned to torture and to cry instead of how much wonder there was in the world.

Fight monsters and you become one. Who had said that? She couldn’t remember, which annoyed her and that pulled her far enough away from the urge to torture and maim and kill that she was able to take a step back from the prone body. “It isn’t personal,” she said, though that was a lie. It was. She hated this man. But even if she hadn’t, he needed to go and this was as good an opportunity as any to strip away one of Yaxley’s support beams.

“I do have a question,” Draco said. He was biting at the side of his mouth and looking down at Carrow with an expression so like his mother’s Hermione almost laughed. Harry had said Narcissa always looked like she was smelling something bad and Draco’s mouth and wrinkled nose were an exact mirror of her. Hermione made an encouraging noise and his mouth got meaner. “Did that swathe you were cutting through London with Lestrange, imperius curses at the ready, allow you to tell yourself that women actually liked you?”

Hermione could feel her hand clench around her wand.

“Because I have a little secret for you,” Draco said. “One last bit of wisdom before my wife murders you and we roll your body into that grave and the worms eat you. They didn’t. No one does. Even Yaxley despises you.”

She shoved his body into the open grave. It fell with a thunk that made her think of tossing bags of rubbish out after a good spring cleaning. He landed face down and she had the brief, unfortunate thought that she should roll him over or he’d smother. That made her jaw tremble with what might have been hysterical laughter. Who worried about whether a man could breathe when you were about to do the unthinkable? Cold blooded killing, as it turned out, pushed her to the edge of control.

“I’d let you die slowly, buried alive,” she said, “but then I’d be afraid you’d somehow claw your way back out.”

She took a deep breath and glanced at Draco. He nodded, just the smallest tip of his chin, and she pointed her wand at Amycus Carrow. “_Avada Kedavra.”_

The flash of green light seemed too bright. Her head flew up and she looked at the manor house, guilt suddenly clawing at her. Had she been seen? They hadn’t even checked whether he had come with anyone else. Would someone be out looking for him? Would that light give them away?

Draco had already started to move. He used his wand to shift dirt back into the grave and she shook herself and began to help him. Once the dirt was in, they packed it down and she could hear the crunch of Carrow’s bones as they pushed the land down with as much force as magic could bring. They didn’t want the grave to settle. That was always one of the issues with burying people in unexpected places. Do it wrong and as the body decomposed the land settled down and it became obvious what you’d done.

The crunch seemed loud. It seemed obscene. She looked back up, expecting Death Eaters to come pouring out of the manor, alerted to the demise of their companion by the cracking, crunching, squelching sounds his body made as they compressed it. The big house looked back at them with sleepy window eyes and a skirt of shrubbery pressed against its feet. No one came.

She focused back on the grave and gave it one more good push. Then considered the dirt itself. That would have to be hidden. She’d never worried about that before. The places they’d buried Order members had never started out as tidy lawns. But she could do this. She was Hermione. She was clever and brave and as soon as she got this done she could go up to the house and take the longest shower ever.

She focused on what the grass should look like. Dormant. Frosted. Stiff. Transfiguration turned the top layer of dirt back into a perfect copy of the stretch of grey and green that reached from their feet up to the house. She tweaked and poked and fussed with it, changing one element to make it look even more perfect, and she probably would have done that all day if Draco hadn’t touched her arm.

“It’s fine,” he said. She looked at him and realized her eyes were burning and that was tears. It made her angry. How dare she cry for Amycus Carrow? How dare she?

Draco gathered her into his arms and she began to shudder. The adrenaline left her and, as everything became too much, she sagged. “I hate this,” she said.

“I know,” he said. He pressed his cheek against her hair and held her as she cried. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Moonlightmasquerade and r--santiago for beta reading. 


	39. Chapter 39

They ran into Narcissa on their way back to their rooms. “Have you seen that horrible Amycus Carrow?” she asked. “He was supposed to come by today to pick up some paperwork and no one’s seen him.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and studied her mother-in-law. Narcissa gazed back with a steady, unreadable expression. “No,” she said at last. “Though I doubt I’d be the first person he’d try to find.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa said. She tapped her fingers along her thigh and summoned a look of significant, aristocratic annoyance. Her nose wrinkled, and she pursed her mouth, and for all the world she looked as if she’d bit into a strawberry and found it wasn’t perfectly ripe. How dare this peasant be so inconsiderate, that look said. “If he doesn’t arrive by dinner, I may send an owl to Yaxley. It’s very inconvenient to have his little servants trooping in and out. The least he could do is ensure they arrive when he says they will.”

“Do that,” Draco said. 

“He was probably in town engaging in the same sorts of disgraceful behaviors we’ve seen written up,” Narcissa said. Her lip curled. “Don’t you agree?”

“I would never dare argue with you,” Hermione said. She glanced at Draco. This was all very surreal. She wanted nothing more than to get back to their room and instead she was discussing the punctuality issues of a man she’d just murdered. Carrow wasn’t off harassing women. He’d never harass another woman again. Hysteria began to bubble up and she bit down on the inside of her cheek in an attempt to control herself. Now was not the time to break down.

“Were you out at the rose garden?” Narcissa asked,

The conversational pivot that left Hermione reeling and she could feel her mouth get strained. What had possessed the woman to decide this was the right time to accost them with idle chit chat? She wanted a shower, and a bowl of soup, and a good cry, not to chit chat about the landscaping. Narcissa must have seen her tension but she ignored both the clenched jaw and tightened shoulders to drag them both off to one of the endless small rooms in this manor. She had garden plans spread out on a table and Hermione blinked a few times as she looked at them.

“Did you do these yourself?” she asked. The work looked professional but the ink seemed barely dry. In fact, when she touched a finger to the paper, a tiny bit of blue smudged onto her finger.

“I was playing around this morning,” Narcissa said. She waved her wand and uttered a charm Hermione didn’t know and the smear she’d left on the plans disappeared. “Landscapers never seem to be able to translate my ideas properly. You tell them one thing and they hear another.”

Hermione was wholly unfamiliar with the problems of hired help but she tried to look interested as Narcissa went on. The sketch showed a second wall curving out from the rose garden. “I was thinking to make that a raised bed,” Narcissa said, touching the tip of her wand to the paper. “I will make the entrance more dramatic, and I think the roses would like that.”

It would leave the Amycus Carrow’s body under a stone wall and several feet of additional topsoil. Hermione looked at the drawing. It was just too perfect. When she glanced back up at Narcissa’s face, the woman looked utterly unperturbed. Only the smallest twitch of her nose suggested this was anything other than a very convenient coincidence. 

“You’ll have to teach me those blueprint charms,” Hermione said. “They seem very handy.”

“The best time to work on the walls is now,” Narcissa said. “If you think the placement is pleasing, I will have the gardeners start working tomorrow and we will plant in the spring.”

“It looks perfect,” Hermione said. She knew the words came out a bit faintly and she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Narcissa sniffed. “You are surely still recovering from the unpleasantness of last night.”

Unpleasantness. That was one way to put it.

“I will have another bowl of soup sent to your room. You should rest.”

She turned away and muttered, loudly enough for anyone trying to listen to hear, “I am going to have a word with Lord Yaxley about Amycus Carrow. The nerve of that man, not arriving on time.”

Hermione didn’t say anything about the events of the morning, the garden plans, or Narcissa’s manufactured fury with Amycus as they walked through the halls of the Manor. She waited until Draco had shut the door of their suite behind them, locked it, and checked the lock not once but twice. Then she opened her mouth. “Your mother is -.”

“Terrifying,” he said.

She began stripping off all her clothes. She never wanted to wear these again. Killing a person in battle was one thing. She’d done that and hadn’t walked away with this feeling that she would never be clean again. Rendering a man helpless and then slaughtering him like a pig was another feeling altogether and one she didn’t ever want to have again.

“You did well,” Draco said softly as she pulled off first one sock and then another. She stopped to stare at him. She’d call what she’d done a lot of things but the word ‘well’ hadn’t occurred to her. “Did you think we’d be able to legislate them away?” he asked. His voice stayed quiet. There was no sneer. Nothing but truth. “He controls the Wizengamot. The members who aren’t already in his pocket are frightened of vexing him. It’s going to take an uprising.”

“I know,” she said. She didn’t want it to. The little girl who’d read a book on how the House of Commons worked still believed, somehow, that if you were just right, if you just had a law, if there were just a _rule_, you could make it all better. But the world wasn’t rational like that. The world made bad laws and then hid behind them. The world was filled with people who were afraid.

She was afraid.

“We should go -,” she began to say, but Draco stopped her, a single finger over her mouth.

“Not tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow you need to rest from the crucio. We’ll get the papers and read through the last few weeks, find out what’s going on.” He began to grin. “Maybe go flying.”

She had to have heard him wrong. “Flying?” she asked.

“You know,” he said. “On a broom. You are a witch, right?”

She began to wonder if murdering two people in one day was really that much worse than murdering one.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll go slow.”

The next day was bright and clear and any hope Hermione had he forget about the idea to take her flying died over breakfast. He already had a play Snitch in his hand, moving it between his fingers in a way that reminded her too painfully of Harry. Seekers. They were all the same in the end. They loved brooms and they went too high and too fast. “I won’t go too fast,” he said as he smirked at her.

That was a lie. Or maybe it was true compared to the maniac way Quidditch players usually flew. That didn’t mean she liked it. She felt Quidditch was best viewed on the ground, from the safety of a magically stabilized stand, team flag in one hand and butterbeer in the other. She didn’t like flying, had never liked flying, and, she was pretty sure, would never like flying.

The broom was too narrow. The wind was in her eyes. Draco kept swooping down to the ground in huge arcs that left her stomach somewhere high above her. She knew she wasn’t going to fall. She knew intellectually this was safe – safer by far than many of the things she’d been doing the past few years – but it felt terrifying and as he pointed the broom up at an angle she could see was about 10 degrees but which her gut insisted was straight up, she tightened her arms around him in a way that a less generous person might have called, “clenching” or “strangling.”

“Want to go faster?” he yelled, and she dug her fingers into his side. She was going to kill him. She was absolutely, 100% going to kill him. As soon as they were back on solid ground. She glanced down at that blessed, unmoving, stable earth and Antonin Dolohov smiled back up at her. Even from here she could see the amused twitch to the side of his mouth. Was her fear of flying really common knowledge?

She pressed her mouth to Draco’s ear and said, “Higher, too.”

He laughed with an utter, pure joy and the broom danced up. Higher. Faster. Antonin Dolohov could go to hell. She let out a laugh of her own and reached a hand up to tug her hair free so the curls would stream out behind her. Miserable, rotten Death Eater wanted to see her afraid? She’d see him dead first.

Unfortunately, before she could see him dead, she had to see him on the lawn. He didn’t leave and he didn’t leave and at last she sighed and muttered into Draco’s ear, “I suppose we should see what the bastard wants.”

Draco seemed as unenthusiastic about that as she felt but he spiraled down in a slow, lazy descent that left them a few feet away from the senior Death Eater. “Mr. Dolohov,” Hermione said. “What brings you over?”

“Lucius said he had a new wine shipment,” the man said. “We like to do a tasting together now and then.”

“Pleasure, then,” she said. “Not business.”

“Not everything in life is governing,” Dolohov said. “Now and again, young Mrs. Malfoy, I indulge in recreation.”

Recreation for Death Eaters could mean so many things, none of them pleasant. It was impossible to keep her mind from running from one unsavory idea to the next. Murder. Rape. Assault. Theft. Terror. Mayhem. Some of her disdain must have appeared on her face because his own studied her and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “The certainties of youth,” he said. “How I miss them.”

“I beg your pardon.” 

It wasn’t a question – more of a condemnation – but he answered it anyway. “When we are young the world seems so simple,” he said. “We know what is right and what is wrong. Age brings more shades of grey. When we are older we recognize nuance and, perhaps, earlier mistakes.”

It was appalling. It was infuriating. It was beyond maddening to be condescended to about nuanced thought by a Death Eater. She still had the scar on her shoulder from when he’d attacked her in her teens. She’d been tortured in this house more than once. So had Draco. And this…this upright piece of filth, this cretinous mass still walking… had the cheek, the gall, the _nerve_ to suggest she was naïve and that she’d understand complexity as she aged.

“If you are having difficult distinguishing black and white,” she said, “I suggest you get your eyes examined by a Healer.”

He laughed. “It’s always a pleasure, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said. He nodded his head toward Draco, turned on his heel, and was absorbed by the house.

She clenched her fists and ground her teeth against themselves. “Hermione?” Draco asked. He sounded concerned and uncertain.

“How dare he,” she said. Her eyes were glued to the door he’d disappeared through. “It has been a long time since I’ve had the… the _luxury_ of seeing myself as being… being unblemished in the light, and -.”

“No,” Draco said, interrupting her. “That’s Ronald.”

She whirled and glared at him. She had enough fury boiling through her to let some spill out onto him.

“Ronald,” Draco went on, as if she weren’t almost spitting at him, as if her eyes weren’t warnings to be silent. To be still. Later she’d think how brave he’d been to go on at that moment. Later she’d add that to her list of ways Draco Malfoy was far less cowardly than he believed. Now, however, she just thrust out her jaw, a firm set of bone and sinew that should have scared him off. It didn’t.

“Ronald,” he said again, “Who is in France, out of reach, saved from having to compromise or make hard choices.”

A bird screamed off in the distance and her nails dug into her palms. “You’re a wonder, Hermione,” he said softly. “People who keep their hands clean don’t get things done.”

“I’ll get them all done,” she muttered. “I’m already filthy. What’s a little more dirt now? They can all burn.”

“Soil,” Draco said. She didn’t control her annoyance at that because he added an explanation. “When you are growing new things, you use soil.”

“Pedantic,” she said but she liked the distinction. She wasn’t down in the dirt. She was running her hands through the rich soil of a garden, planting seeds that would bloom in the spring.

“Town, then?” Draco asked. “Shall we go get a feel for the will of the crowd?”

Hermione wondered if she could imperious an entire population into overthrowing the government. “Town,” she agreed. “Let’s go get lunch at someplace with outdoor seating.”

“It’s a fine day,” Draco said. “A day for people to be shopping and walking about.”

He put the broom away and she fixed her hair and they left. Narcissa was arguing with a man Hermione assumed was one of her landscapers. They managed not to see Dolohov again on the way out.


	40. Chapter 40

The host of the restaurant they’d selected looked a little uneasy when he saw Draco and Hermione. Hermione glanced into the dining area, wondering if they should have made a reservation, but at least half the tables were empty and, before she could ask, the host led them to a small table half-hidden behind a potted palm. Hermione sat down. One of the leaves of the plant brushed across her face as she lowered herself to her chair then tickled her neck. She tried to bat it away and one of the branches caught on her diamond bracelet. Enough was enough. She turned and gave the basket hiding the pot a good shove with a murmured charm to get it further away from her. She didn’t need the decorations feeling her up during lunch.

Someone had left a copy of _The Prophet _leaning up against the wall behind the plant and when she moved the pot, the paper fell down. It might be rude to read at the table, especially if you were out with a husband you rather adored, and it might be nothing but a rag more dedicated to propping up Yaxley’s administration than reporting the truth, but Hermione had never been able to resist the printed page so she bent down to pick it up. It had been left folded open to the editorial section and she was unable to control the grimace that settled onto her mouth when she saw Pansy Parkinson’s photo. She looked glossy and smug and had the tiniest bit of an overbite that made her teeth seem large. They gleamed even in the black and white picture and Hermione wondered if there was a charm for tooth whitening. If so, Pansy knew it. She’d used it a few too many times.

“Anything good?” Draco asked.

Hermione let out of snort but didn’t answer. She was already reading the article. _Pansy Parkinson,_ the byline read. _Best-selling author of _The War on Aurors_ and a former student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._ “Who hasn’t gone there,” Hermione muttered to the picture. “It’s the only school. It’s not that impressive of an accomplishment, Pansy.” Pansy pushed her lips together and glanced down at the title of her opinion piece. _Strength Comes from Vision_. 

It wasn’t about the importance of seeing an eye doctor regularly.

By the time Hermione had reached the end of the article, she was grinding her teeth and her hands had clenched so tightly the paper was folding in on itself. Pansy adored Corban Yaxley. He had prioritized the needs of wizards and witches over muggles. He had removed wasteful regulations while putting others in place dedicated to securing their borders and their way of life. He had freed Wizarding Britain from its tiresome focus on the needs of Muggle-borns. Their assimilation was their own problem. They should bear the brunt of the costs of joining Wizard society. She even proposed the long-standing tradition that Hogwarts be free of cost be changed for Muggle-borns and that their parents should pay for the cost of their magical education, “which is a significant drain on resources because of their greater needs.”

She also found his aggressive stances “sexy.”

Hermione picked up her water glass and drained about half of it. When the waitress came over she asked for a glass of chardonnay then changed her mind. “Bring me a bottle,” she said.

Draco raised his brows but just selected a particular vineyard and vintage and didn’t comment on how unusual it was for her to want to drink quite that much. She didn’t think all the wine in all the world was enough to get the foul taste of Corban Yaxley as “sexy” out of her mouth.

Pansy edged toward the frame of her photograph to get away from the fingers crumbling the paper. She could run, but she couldn’t hide. Hermione crumbled the paper even more viciously, holding it more and more tightly in her hands, until Draco reached over and pried it free.

He glanced down at the article and curled his lip. “She never could write for shite,” he said. “Theo and I used to have to proofread all her assignments.”

That tricked a laugh out of Hermione. Draco smoothed the crinkled newsprint as best he could and folded the paper back so the front page faced outward. “Maybe don’t read that part,” he suggested. “It’s only going to upset you.”

The wine arrived, and they ordered, and Hermione took a deep breath. She’d known Pansy had taken on the role of shill for Yaxley. It wasn’t out of character, or even unexpected. Someone always wanted to ride the coattails of power, no matter how loathsome that power was. She still didn’t like it. She took a sip of the wine. She tried to inhale. She was doing what she could. It wasn’t everything. She couldn’t fight every battle. Another sip. Draco had selected a good bottle. At least she supposed it was good. She liked the taste more than that swill they served at the art openings they’d gone to. 

“What’s the actual news,” she asked. It had to be better than Pansy’s opinion.

The actual news seemed to be that Lord Yaxley was picking a fight with the French Ministry. Draco just twisted his mouth into a frown, muttered something about trade wars being better than real wars, and shoved the paper back toward her. She picked up the paper and searched for the article he meant.

It was appalling and offensive and over the top but as she read it first once, then more closely, she went from outrage to a slow sense of smug pleasure. Percy had written it. She recognized the penname as a play on an old joke of Fred’s. The article itself was maddening. It praised the Ministry’s decision to impose tariffs on imported magical items with excessive fervor and cavalierly dismissed, while being sure to mention three times, the impact this would have on the economy of wizarding Britain and the lives of ordinary wizards and witches. _Number four of a 10-part series_, the by-line noted. 

She’d have to get the other parts. Good on Percy. He was doing it. He was damning with excessive praise. She just hoped it would work.

She took another sip of the wine, then pushed her chair back. “I’m going to go to the loo before the food gets here,” she said. “You might like this one.”

Draco nodded at her, almost absent mindedly, and picked up the paper to read the article. She wove her way through the restaurant. Conversations died off as she passed tables and she could feel eyes on her skin. She’d wanted to be pretty, once. Wanted to be the center of attention the way Fleur and Ginny always were. Now she was wondering if she should have downed polyjuice before they went out. The immaculate designed clothes, picked out by Narcissa, itched along her shoulders, and the bracelet felt like a heavy shackle on her wrist. 

“Shame,” she thought she heard a woman say as she walked by her table, but when she turned the diners were all absorbed in their menus, not paying her any heed at all.

The loo was one of the fancy ones you found at posh restaurants with a whole lounge for women to sit on comfortable chairs and peer into giant, gilt-edged mirrors. The lounge was empty when she passed through it on her way to the toilets, but when she came back out, still muttering a drying charm at her hands because the basket of paper hand-towels needed filling, several of the chairs had occupants and a pair of witches stood by the door. They were all staring at her. She smiled as blandly as she could at one older woman. The stony return gaze didn’t encourage her. Well, if that was the way they wanted to be. She wasn’t sure if her sin was her birth or her marriage, but she didn’t really care. They could all go sit in judgement on someone else.

“Excuse me,” she said in her best Narcissa voice.

No one moved.

“You have a lot of nerve,” said a voice behind her. “Showing your face among decent people.”

“Social climber,” said someone else. 

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to count to ten even as she slid her hand, still slightly damp, into her pocket and brushed her fingers against her wand.

“I hope you feel guilty every night,” one of the women said. Her lip curled in barely contained rage. Hermione had faced down Death Eaters and sycophants, both in battle and over canapes, and she’s never seen someone look at her with such utter hatred. Her heart began to beat harder. This might go badly. This might go very badly indeed. She was outnumbered, and two women stood between her and the exit. If she had to fight, it would get bloody. Could she apparate away?

“Why would I?” Hermione asked as lightly as she could. “The war was just, as Augustine would have said.”

The witch facing her had no idea who Augustine was, that was clear. “No one’s talking about the war,” she said. 

“Though you should feel worse,” a witch said, taking a step closer. “You were friends with the Boy Who Lived, you helped him.”

“And now look at you. Does it bother you that Lord Yaxley’s policies mean most people will have less?” That witch took a step closer too. “Does it bother you to know people are suffering?”

Hermione wanted to scream. This was ridiculous. These women had cornered her in the loo, thinking she was supporting Yaxley. First Pansy’s article and now this.

“Why would it bother her?” a witch asked. “She got hers.”

“Betray everything and everyone,” said another. “Why not as long as you get those sweet, sweet Malfoy galleons to roll around on at night?”

The older woman who must be the ringleader poked Hermione in the chest with a long, spindly finger. “Wizarding Britain was always a decent place,” she said. “We didn’t hold with that Grindelwald nonsense. And people fought back against Voldemort.”

Hermione decided now might not be the best time to express her opinion on how people hadn’t done anything of the sort and had by and large just left it for other people to sort out. Things had been bad, yes, so very bad, but the people who weren’t directly affected hadn’t seemed to do much more than look the other way. She took a step back from the woman’s prodding finger, which brought her closer to the pair of witches guarding the exit. They cackled. It was so on-brand Hermione wanted to laugh. Instead she fought back against her body’s screams to run, run now, run away, and said, “We’re not at war.”

“No,” the woman agreed. She took a step of her own forward and Hermione’s room to maneuver got that much smaller. “We’re just slowing dying under Lord Yaxley’s reign.” She twisted Lord into the same insult Hermione did in her own mind. “Tariffs, regulations about how people like you need to file extra paperwork, constantly having to prove that they belong –.”

“Why would she care?”  
  
“ – and I suppose you know all about the Carrows and the Lestranges and the disgusting way they treat women?” the woman went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted.

“I had heard that, yes.”

“But you go to parties with them,” the woman sneered. “So, it’s not as if you really care.”

“Power-brokers never do.”

Hermione choked back an almost hysterical laugh. This woman hated the Carrows and she’d surely never even been tortured by one of them. She was too old to have been at Hogwarts during their reign of terror and, as she was clearly eager to point out, not connected enough to be invited into the inner circle now. She hated the because of the propaganda the Order had spread, hated Yaxley’s reign more because of it, and it was all brilliant and a great job and she’d raise a glass to Molly and Moody and the efficacy of their campaign except now she was the one trapped in a group looking more and more like a mob.

More, she couldn’t help but see the bodies lying on the floor, in the garden. She’d killed them both. BOTH. She’d have nightmares for years, she was sure. And she couldn’t admit it. She had to pretend to be this thing they hated, this part of the system, or it would all be for nothing.

One of the women shoved at her and she took a quick step backward. “Don’t,” she said.

“Or what?” the woman asked. “You’ll report us to Yaxley? Have us tossed in Azkaban to wait for a few weeks while paperwork gets sorted?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said. She pulled out her wand and leveled it at the woman. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the sweat prickling along her arms. Fight or flight. Moody had taught them how to ride it, how to use it. She could feel herself drop into the kind of battle-readiness he’d trained her in. Everything became clearer, sharper, and time became almost slower. She could see a woman put her own hand into her purse to reach for her wand. Another began to pat her pockets, looking for hers. Soldiers these weren’t. “But I will defend myself if things get physical.”

“There’s more of us,” the woman said.

“I fought in a war,” Hermione said. It was a warning. It was a plea for these people to back down and back off before things went too far.

The door to the lounge opened and a familiar voice said, “I’m so sorry to intrude, but I’m looking for my wife. She’s been in here quite a while and I’m becoming worried.”

She spun, turning her back on her main adversary. Moody would have castigated her for that for hours. She didn’t care. She’d almost ran the few steps to Draco Malfoy and pressed herself against his side.

No murder today.

“Our waiter is eager to take our order, darling,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

Hermione glanced at the gathered women. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “Right ladies?”

A nervous shuffling, some looks laced with resentment, but none of them said anything. She turned her back on them again and led Draco back out into the restaurant. 

Everything was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.


	41. Chapter 41

They reached their table before Draco asked in a low voice, “Are you okay?”

Hermione summoned a shaky smile. “Close enough,” she said. He’d gotten another bottle of the excellent wine and she poured herself a glass and took a sip before she added, “I was starting to be afraid it was going to get violent.” She was glad he’d arrived when he did, glad it hadn’t come to that. Hermione Malfoy, whore of the establishment was bad enough. Hermione Malfoy, instigator of violence in the loo would be so much worse. Would Pansy Parkinson write an editorial in her defense? The very thought made her feel ill.

Draco reached over and touched a single finger to the bracelet on her wrist. “Well,” he said, “I’ll just say I’m glad all that spell work didn’t go to waste.”

“Oh, yes.” Hermione took another sip of her wine, this one larger than the first. No wonder Lucius had become an alcoholic. It would be so easy to hide all her problems behind a veil of intoxication. “I’d hate for your posh wand to have to do all that work for nothing.”

“Do you want me to bring charges?” Draco asked, still speaking quietly.

Hermione shook her head. “They were right,” she said in a voice just as soft as his. He looked outraged so she said it again. “They were right. I mean, they were wrong about me, but we’ve worked hard to hide that, and… don’t we want people confronting Yaxley and his crew at every turn?” She could hear the viciousness in her low voice but didn’t care. “Let those fascist bastards be afraid to eat out. I hope people scream in their faces at Quidditch games. I hope every trip out into the world becomes navigating a path of fear… what will happen today? Will they get slurs hissed at them? Water tossed in their faces? There should be a price for supporting him.”

“Which you are paying,” Draco said.

That made her sag a little. “Which I am paying,” she agreed. It was unfair, but who ever said life was fair? She’d bear this to get the work done. She’d keep her head down when necessary, and saunter through public spaces antagonizing people when necessary. She’d sneer and roll her eyes and flirt and flatter and do it all as she prepared the knife to stab into Yaxley’s back.

She’d be Snape.

That made her need another sip from her wine glass.

They ordered and the food came and everything was fine. Hermione kept breathing, avoided looking at anyone in the restaurant, and reminded herself when she could feel their hatred creeping up the back of her neck that they’d wanted this. People didn’t rise up to overthrow beloved governments, and complacent people didn’t rebel. She just didn’t like that no matter what she did she always seemed to be on the side of the group it was okay to hate. Seeing Percy, she was sure, would make it better. At least one person understood.

And he did. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand. He cringed in sympathy when Draco told him the story of the encounter in the restaurant, and he shared what he’d been working on – an article that laid out all the bribes that had lined the pockets of wizarding Britain’s most powerful – and Hermione was sure it was all good and decent and everything they needed to move forward. Her mouth moved and said all the right things. Percy liked praise as much as she did, even now with all the rage, and some part of her mind could see him preening under her pleased words. He was a smart man. What he was doing was working. They’d be rid of this horrid administration sooner rather than later. Hell, he’d probably end up Minister.

She said all the things that were appropriate and flattering, but the photograph of Ron propped on the mantle was all she could think about. He had his hand on Gabrielle Delacour’s rounded stomach. His child. His wife. And it was insane to be jealous. She wasn’t jealous.

He looked so happy, though. So proud. So at peace.

That must be nice.

Draco had to have seen the way she kept sneaking glances at the picture, hidden half way behind a cat toy, but he didn’t say anything. Awkward, she supposed, to mention your wife kept staring at a photograph of her ex as he beamed, his smile going from the photographer to his wife. Percy wasn’t so tactful. Once he realized she was only half-listening to him, he took the picture and turned it to face the wall.

“Came in the Muggle post,” he said apologetically.

“I’m glad he’s doing well,” she said. That was a benefit of living in hiding as a squib. Arabella got the post. She didn’t. Malfoy Manor took their mail via owl or not at all. Of course, that was assuming Ron would have thought to send her a photograph, and that was quite an assumption.

“It’s easier to do well in France,” Percy said. His tattoos writhed in agreement.

“Are they doing anything?” Draco asked. He kept his voice carefully neutral and free of judgement. He, like Percy, was still too scarred by what he’d done – and not done – in the proper war to risk sounding like he was censuring Ronald or the Order now.

“Propaganda, mostly,” Percy said. He sounded equally careful. “The idea is to foment rebellion then, when people are rioting in the streets, to trot Harry out as a savior.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances. It was similar enough to what they were doing she couldn’t object to it. “That’s good,” she said. It was awful to hear that her own voice was just as careful as theirs. These were her friends – her best friends – and she had fought a war with them. They had won a war because Harry was pure of heart and noble enough to be willing to die for everyone. It was just that, as she stood here in this crowded suburban house that smelled of cat, it was hard not to remember how Harry had needed to be nudged and pushed and dragged into things. How he’d managed to not think about any of the challenges in the Triwizard Tournament until the last minute. How he’d skated by on luck and a willingness to barge in where any intelligent angel would have refused to go. And Ron? Ron was worse. She knew that wasn’t fair. Knew he was loyal and good and true. But as her eyes kept going back to the picture of Ron and his bride – the bride she absolutely did not begrudge him and everything had worked out and she was much happier with Draco – it was hard not to remember how bitter and angry he’d been that Harry had been chosen for that Tournament. Hard not to remember the way he’d accused her beloved Crookshanks of eating his wretched rat. Hard not to remember how he’d run off in that final, horrible year. His family was in danger. She and Harry were different, he’d said. They didn’t have to worry about a wizarding family.

She reached out for Draco’s hand and squeezed it so hard it had to hurt but he made not a single sound of protest.

“It is good,” Percy said. A hint of anger snuck into his words. “Good and safe.”

“Not like here,” Draco said, and she could hear his voice mirroring Percy’s. He’d always been in the thick of things, stuck in a house with Voldemort, stuck in a school with the Carrows, trapped by other people’s decisions. Trapped by his own youthful arrogance.

“Well,” Hermione said as brightly as she could, “it will be over soon if today’s fun in the loo is any indication.”

“Do you want to hear something?” Percy asked. Before she could answer he turned on a wizarding radio and fiddled with the knob. Static, and then that awful Celestina Warbeck, more static, then a voice she recognized. Airy and meandering and burning with so much anger Hermione was surprised the force of sympathetic magic didn’t ignite the radio. 

“We know he’s not a vampire, alas,” Luna said. “You could plunge a stake into a vampire. But the question remains, what is wrong with Corban Yaxley?” The war had changed Luna. The last Hermione had seen her, she’d been hovering at the brink of madness. Judging by this commentary, she was back to her peculiar and odd self. Strange, but not insane.

“Lord Corban,” said a voice Hermione didn’t recognize. Male. Cultured. Whoever this was, he had come from money. She could tell by the vowels.

“Oh,” Luna said with what sounded like genuine surprise in her voice. “Does he have a Muggle peerage thingy? I didn’t know. I thought he was a pureblood.”

“I think he is,” the male speaker said. Draco was staring at the radio in shock. He must think he recognized the voice. “A pureblood, I mean.”

“We don’t have titles in wizarding Britain,” Luna said. She sounded confused and Hermione could hear her flipping through what might have been a pile of parchment. “Well, the Supreme Mugwump, of course, but not _Lords_.”

“Or Ladies,” the male voice said.

“I think Narcissa Malfoy is a bit of a lady,” Luna objected. “Did you know she has three extra nipples?”

Percy looked at Draco whose mouth had dropped open.

“I’ve never examined Narcissa’s chest,” Hermione said, trying not to laugh. “I mean, Luna could be right.”

“She is not,” Draco said with an offended twist to his mouth.

“Don’t be such a stuffed shirt,” Percy said. “She’s making your mother somewhat relatable.”

“With _extra nipples?_” Draco asked. “How is that relatable?”

“Both of you shut up,” Hermione said. “I want to hear this.”

They’d missed whatever Luna’s co-host’s response was to the revelation about Narcissa, but Luna had returned to the question of what Corban Yaxley was, exactly, since he wasn’t really a Lord and wasn’t a vampire. “I think he might be a kelpie,” she said. “They’re very ugly – “

“Which certainly fits,” the male speaker said. “Corban Yaxley could use a trip to a good witchy spa to trim his nails and do something about his teeth.”

“Very bad teeth,” Luna agreed. “And they like to lure people into rivers and streams and then eat them.”

“Don’t kelpies spend most of their time as horses?” Draco asked in an undertone.

Hermione hit him on the arm. He needed to stop interrupting.

“Do you think Corban Yaxley eats people?” the radio asked.

Hermione could almost see Luna’s nod. “Oh yes,” she said. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Ministry was covering up a string of murders he’d committed in search of human flesh to devour.”

Percy clicked the radio off.

“That’s total nonsense,” Draco said. Hermione suspected he was sore about the comment about his mother, but she had to agree. Spreading information about corruption and bribery and even sexual misconduct seemed like it would rile people up. No one likes an adulterer who doesn’t pay his taxes. But the idea the man was a malevolent fairy horse creature who was secretly dining on wizards and witches was absurd. No one would believe that.

Would they?

Percy’s smile looked a little too smug. “She’s good,” he said. “And it lets us print up a lot of stories denying that Yaxley is a man-eating monster and people aren’t smart. What a lot of them take away is there’s so much denial about Yaxley eating people – “

“That there must be some truth,” Draco breathed out in an awed voice. “Percy Weasley, you are a genius.”

Percy shrugged but Hermione could tell he was pleased. “I do my best,” he said. A thousand people saying _Corban Yaxley isn’t eating people, don’t be ridiculous_ would result in the slow questions of, _But what is he really hiding? He was a Death Eater. How many bodies do you think are in his wake?_

Hermione could imagine them now, talking about how they’d thought he was a fresh voice, someone who would shake things up after the incompetent Ministry had failed to deal with Voldemort not once but twice, but now they were sorry they’d supported him. He’d gone too far.

She thought they were bastards and cowards and weak-minded fools, but if herding them into the streets was what it took to get this monster out of power, she’d use them. She gave the radio a look of fierce satisfaction, then nodded sharply at Percy. “Stay safe,” she said. “You and that reporter.”

“We will,” he said.

She turned to go, ready to apparate out of the little overgrown patch at the back of Arabella’s garden, when she remembered one last thing she’d wanted to tell him. “The Carrows?” she said, her voice turning it into a question.

“Carrow, you mean,” he said. “I recall the way you ended the first one at your wedding.”

“They’ve been reunited,” she said.

Percy’s smile was as vicious as her own. “May they rest in peace,” he said.

“Indeed,” Hermione said. 

She and Draco slipped away, fingers interlaced, back to Malfoy Manor and the roles they had to play. Narcissa had left a note on Hermione’s desk. _Company for dinner_, was all it said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to saintmosshart for proofreading and a giant, incredible thanks to slytherinxbadxgirl, who reread the whole story to make sure I hadn’t killed off Luna in the past. They are both amazing


	42. Chapter 42

By the time the dinner hour arrived, Hermione wanted nothing so much as to lay her head down and sleep. So far today she’d gone flying, an activity she never liked, seen Dolohov smirking up at her, had a terrible lunch, and had the immeasurable pleasure of seeing Ronald Weasley’s photograph. Today could go hang. She was done.

Only she wasn’t, because she still had to go put on a performance as a good little Malfoy bride, chipper and smug and hateful and wholly committed to this vile, fascist regime. If she had to put on dress trousers and slip her feet into high heels, she wanted it to be because she was walking to the town square to set Yaxley’s funeral pyre ablaze. Fantasizing about that propelled her out of her room, down the corridor, around corners, and all the way to the formal dining room. Draco met her there.

“Which lucky players are we eating with tonight,” she asked, so tired she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Are these actual former Death Eaters or just toadies?”

He flashed her a wry smile. “Mother did not inform me of the guest list,” he said.

“Not friends, then,” Hermione said. Figured. She pushed the door open without waiting for Draco to do the gracious thing, the aristocratic thing, and hold it for her. She pulled out her own chair, and sat her own self down without pretending she needed his help to slide her way in. She had just about had it with pretending to be weak when she was strong.

“Mrs. Malfoy.”

Antonin Dolohov was seated opposite her. She supposed that made a kind of horrible sense. She’d seen him here this morning and he’d never left. Like the plague, he hung around, waiting for an opportunity to rear his ugly head again and infect the innocent. “Mr. Dolohov,” she said. “How lovely to see you.”

“You need to have your eyes examined,” Lucius said. Three glasses in. Whatever filter he had was washed away. He poured himself another and lifted a brow at a glance he must have found censorious. He was wrong. She wasn’t judging him. She was envying him.

Draco took the bottle from his father and measured some out for her. He paused at the usual, polite level of full, then added a bit more. “Would you like some, Rabastan?” he asked as the door opened.

Hermione managed not to close her eyes as the unmistakable Rabastan Lestrange sashayed into the room. He grabbed the bottle from Draco’s outstretched hand and said, “I know how to fill a glass, Malfoy.” He added a bit more to hers, then poured the rest into his before he even sat down. He miscalculated how much wine was left in the bottle and the overflow spilled out and puddled on the white tablecloth. Red wine. Hermione remembered her mother saying that was one of the hardest stains to get out. Worse than blood, she’d said.

“Mr. Lestrange,” she said. “I didn’t see you in the hall.”

“Just got here,” he said. He patted ineffectually at the spill with his napkin before giving up with a shrug and dropping the now equally stained fabric into his lap. Narcissa ignored the entire thing.

“You missed Rabastan, too?” Dolohov asked with a tsking sound. “Not at your most observant today, Hermione.”

“You really do have vision problems, darling,” Draco said.

“Is the bloom already off the rose?” Dolohov asked, with so much false concern Hermione began to consider that since this tablecloth might already be ruined, it was quite possible that Narcissa would forgive her getting even more red wine on it when she threw her glass in the Death Eater’s miserable, rotten face.

“People think roses are so difficult to grow,” Narcissa said placidly, as though she had just heard the last word of his sentence and hadn’t followed the entire conversation in detail. “It’s a misunderstanding, really, born of ignorance.”

“What’s your secret,” Hermione asked. Some devilish impulse made her add, “to keeping the bloom on the rose, I mean.”

Lucius choked on his wine.

“Yes, Lucius,” Dolohov nearly cooed, “What is your lovely wife’s secret to keeping the rose blooming?

“Fertilizer, really,” Narcissa said. She took a dainty sip of her wine and smiled at him. “Give roses the proper decomposing matter, and they do very well indeed.”

“What about pests?” Hermione asked. She was terribly proud she kept her face straight.

“They can be a problem,” Narcissa said as though conceding something. “But with proper treatment, you just add them to the compost heap.”

Hermione continued to keep her composure until Narcissa flicked a glance at Dolohov. Then she had to bite the inside of her cheek until the pain kept her focused and not laughing. “Are you interested in gardening, Mr. Dolohov?” she asked.

“Please, my dear,” he said. “Call me Antonin.”

It would be unpardonably rude to make a gagging noise at the dinner table so Hermione refrained. “Gardening, Antonin?” she asked.

“I’m afraid it’s an art I know nothing about,” he said. “I prefer divination.”

“Divination?” She couldn’t hide her genuine surprise at that. Curse the man, he looked amused.

“It was never your favorite subject, was it?” Draco asked.

“No,” Hermione said. “At Hogwarts, I dropped the class.”

“Not a huge fan of dear Sybill?” Dolohov asked her.

This was treacherous ground indeed and Hermione’s smile became even more false. The lie she’d told so long ago about Harry’s damned prophecy jabbed at her. She’d thought she was so clever, but she’d been too clever by half. She should have kept her fool mouth shut. “Students often fail to appreciate the classes that will most impact their lives,” she said. “A problem with being young.”

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “Age brings wisdom.”

“Then you are surely the wisest of us all,” Lucius muttered. He drained his glass and ignored Narcissa’s attempts to catch his eye as he filled it again.

Dolohov let out a cultured chuckle that made Hermione’s teeth grind down into one another. She forced herself to relax. Her mother had always hated to deal the teeth worn down because people clenched their jaws. _You only have one set of adult teeth_, she would say reprovingly after they’d left the clinic. _You need to take care of them, Hermione._

Funny, the things you remembered.

“What I mean,” Dolohov said, “was that as one becomes older and wiser one learns to read the tea leaves of public opinion and, what is that crude phrase, back the right horse.”

Hermione shoved her tongue between her teeth to keep herself from behaving in a way that would have upset her dentist parents. She would not clench her jaw, or ask this prick bastard what he meant, or do anything at all other than look bland and perhaps a bit perplexed.

“You enjoy horse racing?” she asked.

“I know how to pick a winner,” he said. “Don’t you, Rabastan?”

“God killer,” Rabastan said, and any hopes Hermione had that this conversation might be kept safely away from his delusions disappeared. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose and considered what pain medications they had around of headaches that came out of nowhere and began to stab at you from behind one eye. “God killer becomes god.”

Whatever those painkillers were, they wouldn’t be enough.

“Yes,” Dolohov said. “That is certainly the way it looks.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and slid it across the table toward Hermione. When she made no move to pick it up he said in a voice so oily she was reminded he wasn’t merely unpleasant and conniving and wretched, he’d worked for Voldemort and given every indication of liking it. “I do think you’ll want to look at that, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She quirked a brow up but, with every frisson of calculated unconcern she could summon, picked up the envelope and opened it. It held a small bit of paper, torn to leave only two words.

_Miss you._

Did she blanche? Did her hands tremble? If so, she controlled herself within an instant and dropped the paper with Ron’s handwriting, the note she’d carefully saved so long ago, back onto the table. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.

“A protean charm,” Dolohov said, but it wasn’t an explanation. He was holding court now. “Very sophisticated magic. Hard to do. I’d say I was impressed, but I’d expect nothing less of you. They leave a trace, of course. Perhaps you didn’t know?”

“What are you talking about,” Narcissa said with staccato impatience. A murmured _accio_ and the paper was in her hand. “Miss you? What on earth is this?”

“I’d like to pretend I thought it was a love note,” Dolohov said. “But no woman as accomplished as our young Mrs. Malfoy would waste her time on love notes. I suspect something far more insidious.”

Draco’s knuckles had gone white around the stem of his wine glass. “You’re going to have to enlighten me,” he said. “Forgive me for being quite so slow, but I am not following you at all.”

“Then let me be blunt,” Dolohov said. An _accio_ of his own and the scrap of paper was back in his hand, tucked into another envelope, and slid into a pocket. “Your wife has been in contact with the Order of the Phoenix via the protean charm, and some form of misguided sentimentality led her to save as single line.”

“Gryffindors,” Lucius muttered.

“Well, I would lay the sin at the feet of her sex,” Dolohov said. “Women are often prone to fits of sentimentality.”

“I beg your pardon?” Narcissa sounded more offended than Hermione had ever heard.

“The lovely ladies of the House of Black being a notable exception,” Dolohov said with a nod of his head. His eyes lingered too long on Narcissa’s thin-lipped face to be courteous. “How many bodies are in your garden, Narcissa?” he asked softly. “How many corpses have you planted blooms over without batting a single one of your perfect eyelashes?”

Narcissa drew her wand. “There’s always room for one more,” she said. “Lucius, get the shovel.”

Her husband twisted his mouth. That twist derided the idea he would ever dig a grave with something as plebeian – as _Muggle_ – as a shovel. Manual labor was for the lesser orders, for people who couldn’t excavate a perfect hole with a single charm. Murder, however, crossed all social barriers.

“Before you slaughter me,” Dolohov said, “You might be interested to know I have a companion who will mail the contents of an opened box to the Ministry if I do not return tonight. Without boring you with the details, I can assure you if our mutual friend Lord Yaxley were to see the contents, well, things would go very badly for all of you.”

Narcissa did not lower her wand. “Do not threaten my family,” she said.

“Who said anything about threatening you?” Dolohov asked. “Rabastan, my friend, have I threatened them?”

“She’s the one pointing a wand at you,” Rabastan said.

“Yes, do put that away, please,” Dolohov said. The salad plates picked that moment to appear on the table and he picked up his fork. “Pears,” he said. “My favorite.”

“What do you want?” Hermione asked. Her own fingers itched to slide down into her pocket and pull out her own wand. Everything in her screamed to kill him, to quiet the threat, to make things okay again. If he hadn’t dangled the threat of revelation, she’d have done it. As it was, she was cursing herself for having saved that scrap of paper. It had been foolish and just as sentimental as he’d said. She’d needed it when she’d first gotten here, needed the confirmation her friends missed her, that they cared, that she wasn’t alone. She hadn’t even thought of it in ages. She took her strength from Draco now, and his terrifying mother, and even his horrible drunk of a father. Ron had made his choices, and she’d made hers, and while it had been a shock to see the picture of him propped up on the mantle today, he’d become nothing more than a friend from her past. In a fair world, they’d be godparents to one another’s children and send inappropriate gifts for birthdays. Drums and such. She wanted to send an entire toddler drum kit to him as a christening present for the baby.

It was a bit peculiar to realize she didn’t want anything more, and that she didn’t hold a grudge. She had a habit of grudges. But you had to care enough to carry one of those and the truth was she didn’t. Not anymore.

Though she didn’t look forward to explaining that to Draco.

Assuming they didn’t end up murdering Dolohov and spending the night fleeing. That might not leave time for talking about the note she’d saved.

“Want?” Dolohov said. He stabbed a slice of pear with his fork. “I want to have a delicious meal with old friends, their lovely son, and his talented young wife.”

“And then?” she asked.

He smiled. “And then, when you overthrow Lord Yaxley, which you will inevitably do, I want you to remember that I was always working with the opposition and am on the right side of history.”

“God, you’re despicable,” Hermione said.

He popped the pear in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before he said, “But do we have an agreement?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said.

She could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Then you’re just as despicable as I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to quickhidetherum for beta reading!


	43. Chapter 43

Draco waited until the door of their suite had shut behind them with a click and Hermione had cast a _muffliato_ before he opened his mouth to speak. Even then, she interrupted him. "I don't still feel anything –" she began to say.

At the same time, he asked, "Are you okay?"

They both stopped and looked at one another. "I'm fine," Hermione said.

Over her, Draco said, "Of course you don't. Don't be ridiculous."

"I was worried," Hermione began and stopped again. This seemed to be a conversation of half-finished sentences. She hated those. What, exactly, had she been worried about? That he was afraid she was still in love with her ex? That their marriage was a sham? She didn't even know.

"He's such a filthy piece of scum," Draco said, his mouth set in a grim line. "Sneaking around my house, breaking into your room, ransacking your things." He ran a hand through his hair in obvious frustration.

She felt she had to justify why she had saved even a single portion of one of the notes from the Order. It had been a terrible risk. She’d known that at the time, but she’d still done it. "It's not that I am still in love with him,” she said. "It's not that." She didn’t know how to begin.

"I saved the flowers Pansy gave me for the Yule Ball for years," Draco said before she could talk about how she had needed to remind herself that she had friends, that Ron and Harry hadn’t abandoned her here. “I kept it in a little box, but I didn't think to put a stasis charm on it, and the rose slowly turned brown and crumbled, but I didn't care. Sometimes, that horrible year when Voldemort was here, I would shut the door of my room, open the box, and look at this dead flower, and I would remember that there had been a time when all I had cared about was that the most popular girl in my year had agreed to go to an important party as my date." He looked up at Hermione and shrugged but she saw all the pain in that gesture. It wasn’t fair that it had stopped being that easy. "The box is probably still in my old room."

Hermione looked down at her feet and Draco wrapped his arms around her. He rested his chin on her shoulder and sighed into her neck. She lifted her own hands to slowly wrap her arms around his back. "Why does everything have to be awful?" she asked.

"Because people like Dolohov make it awful," Draco said.

She couldn't argue with that. Her room felt as though it had been violated. She didn't know how long he’d had that little scrap of paper, but everywhere and she looked inside the room she imagined his hands. She pictured him opening drawers, thumbing through all of her books, lifting out her underpants and brassieres. It all made her skin crawl.

"I don't suppose your mother knows any good cleaning charms?" she asked. She didn't think she'd ever get the room clean. Some stains you couldn't scour away no matter how hard you tried. That didn't mean she didn't plan to make an attempt. She’d scrub this place until her hands were so raw they bled if that’s what it took to stop seeing him everywhere.

“I’m sure she does.” Draco brushed his lips along her skin and she sighed and leaned into him. “We can move to another suite if you want.”

She did, but then she didn’t as well. Her head was a mess. She didn’t want to let that bastard chase her away. He hadn’t chased her away from the Department of Prophecy when she’d been a girl and he hadn’t pushed her out of her role with the Order, and she wouldn’t let him drive her out of this room. “I think cleaning it will do,” she said. She sniffed with all the arrogance she’d learned from Narcissa. “He might have fleas.”

Draco swallowed a laugh and she turned to face him. He set his hands on either side of her face and brushed his thumbs against her skin. “I love you, you know,” he said seriously. “Terrifying, brilliant woman.”

“Even after...” she started to say, disbelieving that even after he’d discovered she’d kept that note, even after she’d put them all at risk he was still so calm. “You aren’t?”

“Mad?” he asked, trying to finish her sentence, presumably trying to make sense of her half sentences. He sounded confused, but mad wasn’t what she’d meant. Hurt was what she’d meant, although she wasn’t bothered he had flowers from Pansy tucked away. She knew where his heart sat now, and she took a deep, shuddering breath as she stared into his grey eyes.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” she said.

“Well, I’m not.”

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her. He hadn’t eaten much at dinner and she could taste the wine on his lips. The wine, his fear, his love. Or maybe she was imagining things, like some sort of deranged sommelier nattering on about notes of blackcurrants or honey in the grapes. She didn’t care. She opened her mouth and let herself drown in the feel of his lips and his tongue and the taste of the wine from dinner. She could stand here forever and let herself dream of summer and peace and a time his hands could slide up to lock themselves in her hair, the way they were doing now, and that would be all that mattered. She could lose herself in the fantasy there was nothing but this.

He pulled his mouth away long enough to mutter a hoarse charm at the fireplace, and flames roared up. A log cracked at the sudden influx of heat and settled downward, sending up a rush of sparks. She let him pull her down to the carpet, lush and soft and surely more expensive than anything she’d ever owned, and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Her hands had forgotten how to work, and she pushed the tiny bit of glittering, bespoke perfection first left, then up, but no matter what she did it caught against the fabric. Finally, frustrated beyond speech and wanting to get at his skin, she yanked at the two sides of his shirt. She heard a tearing sound, and the button jerked then fell away. She began to fight with the next one, then gave up and, with a sharp pull, yanked the whole thing away. Draco laughed a little, and ran a thumb along the side of her jaw, tracing the shape of her, but she wasn’t interested in that so much as his skin. His gleaming, pale skin, so marked with scars. She set her fingers along the ones Harry had given him. Curse scars never healed quite right. She had her own to remind her of that.

She touched the skin, puckered and white, even against his natural paleness, then pressed her lips to the injury. “We’ll get them,” she whispered. Her breath was hot against his skin, and she could feel tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. It was all so unfair. His scars. Her scars. The war. This horrible, political aftermath. It was unfair and she hated it and she needed to grow up and get the job done. Wallowing never helped anyone.

“Harry did that to me,” Draco said a little wryly. “I’m not sure ‘_getting him’_ is in the plans.”

Hermione gave him a shove but it was what she needed. It took the edge off her melancholy. “Harry gets a pass,” she said.

“And I did things as bad to him,” Draco said. “And you. And worse to people like Katie Bell.”

“And you get a pass as well.”

“You’re pretty free with the passes,” he said.

She tossed her hair. “I,” she said, “am Hermione Granger. Malfoy. Granger-Malfoy.”

He laughed again and she gave him another shove. He let himself fall back so he was leaning on his elbows, looking up at her. The orange light from the fire danced across his chest and she splayed her hand out so she could watch the patterns of darkness and light rise up and down over her own skin. Her fingers made shadows of their own, and she watched them grow and shrink with the light, stretching across Draco then retreating back to huddle at the base of her palm as the firelight surged and died back again.

She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and he lifted first one hand, then the other, so he could pull his arms through. After he tossed it to the side, he crossed his arms behind his head, lay back, and said, “Your turn.”

She blinked at him, not sure she knew what he meant. He elaborated.

“You seemed to be very focused on undressing me,” he said. “I’ll let you take off your own.”

She licked at her lips, suddenly half shy, which was ridiculous because they were married, they’d been on a honeymoon, they slept in the same bed, and neither of them were exactly embracing celibacy. This felt wanton, though, and new. She settled back on her heels and bit at her lower lip, then reached up. Earlier, she’d pulled her hair back into a twist using magic and a single pin. She found the pin with her fingers, whispered the charm to release her curls, and pulled it out. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, a mess of twists that wanted to go this way and that and anyway but the one she wanted. She’d spent years thinking of her hair as a disaster, when she’d thought of it at all. It was hard to see herself as the sort of siren who pulled down her bun, tossed her head, and made men suck in their breath. Draco sucked his in, however, and the evidence that he liked the gesture was unmistakable.

This was an old power, older than wands and charms and potions, and available to all women, Muggle and magical alike. She licked her lips, and Draco shuddered. She’d yanked his shirt off, but she undid her own buttons with far more deliberation, and spared a quick moment of thanks for whatever prescience had led her to wear a good bra. It didn’t match her pants, of course. She hadn’t been that lucky. At least it wasn’t one of the ratty ones, though, good for days you didn’t want to bother with anything but comfort.

She lowered her shirt over her shoulders even as she kept working on the buttons, and as the cream satin of the not-so-ratty bra appeared, Draco moistened his lips. His eyes flicked from the mounds of her breasts to her eyes and back again. “I shouldn’t stare,” he said huskily.

“Oh, you should,” she said. She undid the last of the buttons and pulled her arms languidly out of the sleeves. She’d never appreciated how slowly a woman could peel herself out of a shirt before. She let her tongue slide over her lips as she tossed her blouse to the side and hooked a thumb under one of her bra straps.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Draco said. He reached a hand up toward her and she batted it back down.

“You suggested I should take my own clothes off,” she said. She wanted to sound prim but she sounded amused and powerful and the feeling of being in total control made her want to move even more slowly. “You’ll lie there like a good boy and wait until I’ve taken care of all these.”

She slid forward along his legs until she was not quite brushing against the very clear outline of his enthusiasm. “Good boy, huh?” he asked.

“Can you be good?” she asked. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, one hand holding the cups in place even as the back fell open.

“I can be very good,” he said.

She slid the first satin strap down, then the other, but didn’t release the fabric she had held to her chest. Magic took care of undoing the clasp of her trousers, and magic whisked her stockings away. She had to stand up to let the trousers slide down her legs, and she kicked them across the floor with a grace she’d never have expected to discover. Draco propped himself up as she stood over him and looked up at her with hunger in his eyes.

“You can be very good?” she asked.

He nodded.

She tossed the bra down and watched his pupils dilate. He swallowed and his throat bobbed and he licked at his lips even as his hands reached for the edges of her pants. “Very good, indeed,” he said.

“Prove it,” she said.

He did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to fibrochemist for her very detailed beta read. This was a mess and her help was amazing. Any remaining problems are, of course, my fault.


	44. Chapter 44

Hermione woke, hair in her mouth, still on the rug in front of the fire. Sometime in the night Draco had summoned a blanket and both of them had curled under it, too sated and lazy to move even to their own bed. The fire had burnt itself out, and even the ashes looked cold. Draco pulled himself up next to her and shook his head. “The floor is not as soft as one might hope,” he said.

She groaned. “I want a shower.” She was sticky in ways that, in the cold light of morning, seemed not the slightest bit appealing. She didn’t even want to look at the rug in case they’d left evidence of their night. Were there cleaning charms for passion on the floor? She certainly wasn’t going to ask Narcissa.

The shower was hot, and the towels divine, and when she emerged Draco tossed her a tiny glass bird. She gasped, and reached out for it, afraid its tiny perfection would shatter if it fell, but it flapped its wings and stayed aloft, just out of reach. She laughed with delight and the bird finally settled down into her outstretched palm, fluffed its wings, then hardened into immobile glass.

“You are a wonder,” she said.

Draco shrugged, but she could see the pleasure in his eyes at her compliment.

They had to get out, had to feel air and see people who weren’t wrapped up in politics and betrayal. Without either of them seeming to make a conscious choice, they ended up in Diagon Alley, fingers laced together, walking over the cobblestone streets and window-shopping.

And overhearing conversations.

“It’s not right,” a witch said in a voice so righteous Hermione had to look over. A pointed green hat sat atop dull red hair and the nose pointing out into the street had lift to it almost as sharp as the witch’s complaints. “If I’d gone around painting graffiti onto the walls, my mum would have taken a switch to me.”

Her companion didn’t bother to hide the roll of her eyes. “Your mother spoiled you rotten, Edna,” she said. “She’d have no more beaten you than you’d beat that girl of yours.”

Hermione had the distinct feeling the second speaker felt the girl in question could, perhaps, have used a firmer hand with the discipline. People who went on the longest about the failures of other people’s parenting always seemed to have the worst kids. “That doesn’t make it right,” Edna said with a sniff. “It’s defacing public property.”

Draco nudged her and pointed at the wall. The message was half hidden by a barrel filled with used Quidditch brooms for sale, but _We Wait to Rise_ writhed on the wall in orange and red paint that mimicked flames.

“Huh,” Hermione said. “I don’t think I’ve seen that spell before.” She’d seen portraits that talked, and portraits that moved, and very angry portraits that screamed, but she’d never seen lettering move the way wizarding photographs did.

“It’s a new technique,” said a man coming up behind her. He had on Muggle sandals he probably thought were trendy and wore a string of hollow metal beads around his neck. Hermione was sure if she looked closely enough, she’d find a ‘Made in India’ inscription on them somewhere. He looked familiar, though she assumed at first that was because this type of wizard seemed to pop up everywhere. He knew just a little more about any subject than any woman did, and was prone to hanging around young witches, holding on to texts about female magic and talking earnestly about the divine feminine while staring a little too hard at his conversational partner’s breasts.

“Oh?” she said. It seemed too awkward not to reply at all.

“There’s a very cutting-edge artist – I’m sure you haven’t heard of her – Ficus is her name. She does modern portraits, cubism. That sort of thing. Cubism is -.”

“I know what it is,” Hermione said. There was being polite and then there was subjecting herself to a half-arsed lecture on an art movement.

“Well,” he went on, though he made sure to level a censorious look at her for interrupting him. “She’s developed a new paint technique.”

“That’s actually quite interesting,” Draco said. He leaned closer to look at the letters. The fire jerked and danced. “A new potion, maybe? Or do you think it’s a charm?”

Hermione was herself charmed by the pure academic interest in his voice and she stepped closer to see the paint better herself. It was easy to forget Draco Malfoy had been as good a student as she had been. Easy to forget he’d had a mind that turned easily to solving complicated magical problems, even if he’d used it for obnoxious tricks like those ‘Potter Stinks’ buttons. Maybe when this was all over, they could set up a laboratory somewhere at Malfoy Manor and enjoy the intellectual pleasure of research and let someone else handle the politics.

“Has to be a potion,” the man said. There was a sneer in his voice and when Hermione turned to look at him, the curl of his lip echoed his tone. “She’s a squib.”

“I know who she is,” Draco said idly. He reached a finger out to touch the paint. “My mum is a bit of a patron. I think she has some commissions in mind.” He turned and looked at the man, running his eyes over the twist of his mouth and the beads around his neck. He let his attention rest just a moment too long on the receding hairline before he held a hand out. “Malfoy,” he said. “Draco Malfoy. Have we met?”

The man took the hand and shook it with a little too much vigor. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know your family was interested in art, Mr. Malfoy. I’m delighted to hear that, delighted.”

Draco freed his hand and shoved it down into the pocket of his trousers. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Though I think my wife prefers photography, don’t you, love?”

Hermione sighed. So, it was to be lord of the manor, then. “I do,” she said. “There was a young woman who did the society photography for our wedding I’ve been meaning to track down. I’d like to have her do a series of still lifes for when we redecorate.”

“Redecorate?” Draco asked.

“I can’t live with all the ancient Malfoys,” she said. She waved her hand as if annoyance with old paintings was the worst thing in her world and leaned closer to the pretentious twerp they were, for some reason, talking to. “They judge, you know,” she said. “All of them.”

“And what are you planning to have her shoot?” Draco asked. He was every inch the indulgent, rich husband and she thought she was going to laugh.

“The rose garden,” she said blandly.

“Mr. Malfoy.” The man was still talking. She wasn’t worthy of that much attention but Draco, oh, he wanted something from Draco. “There’s a show. The Ficus woman has some pieces in it, but I do as well, and I’d love to have you come over, take a look.” He already had a flyer out and was thrusting it towards Draco with pathetic eagerness. 

Draco kept his hands firmly in his pockets, but Hermione took it. She also took a harder look at the man handing it over and a smile twitched at her mouth. She’d seen him before. They both had, at an art opening they’d gone to in disguise. He’d been condemning their politics as she recalled. They were both in league with the current Ministry, she’d betrayed Harry, made her bed, had to lie in it. No pity for her. Funny how the discovery the Malfoys patronized artists rendered all their politics moot.

According to the flyer in her hand this man was Carlton Avery, painter of mostly naked women. He didn’t seem to be interested in doing their heads, and wasn’t especially good at fingers, but the close ups of torsos and thighs were certainly something. Her face must have betrayed at least a hint of her scorn because he said, “The female form has a long history of being a central subject in art.”

“Uh huh,” Hermione said. She passed the paper over to Draco, who deigned to take it from her hands.

“No need to be defensive,” he said with every upper-class vowel he could summon. “I like naked women as much as the next man.”

Hermione turned back to the graffiti so no one would see the exasperated roll of her eyes. Arabella had managed something quite spectacular with that paint. She suspected Percy had helped her. He might have been the dullest of the Weasley children, at least as far as most people were concerned, but no one had ever accused him of being unintelligent. And dating that photographer might have piqued his interest in the visual arts. “We should go to the exhibit,” she said. It wasn’t as if they had anything else planned today.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Draco said. Carlton nearly fell over himself offering to lead them there in case they got lost. Hermione hooked her hand around Draco’s arm and listened to the babbling about art and support and how no one really appreciated the sacrifices artists made.

“Do you ever dabble in political work?” Draco asked.

Carlton shook his head. “Even Ministry workers buy art,” he said with false heartiness. “Why alienate a potential client, right?”

Hermione flicked a glance at him. “Right,” she said.

“I mean,” he went on, “you’ve certainly changed your tune, right? First Harry Potter’s best friend, now Draco Malfoy’s wife? People are people on both sides of the political divide, right?”

“Even squibs?” she asked quietly.

He had the self-awareness to flush, which surprised her, and she let go of Draco’s arm to push her way into the gallery. Arabella’s work hung in the most prominent locations. It was growing on her and she stopped to look at a sallow, hook-nosed figure in black. He scowled at her from one of his two mouths. One of his hands tried to use his wand to stab a snake wrapping itself around his feet. She bent down to read the title plaque. _He Who is Detached_.

“You like that one?” Carlton asked her. He didn’t seem to have any intention of letting them be.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m curious about the title.”

“A play on the figure’s structural composition,” Carlton said as though that were the most obvious answer in the world. He clearly delighted in being able to educate her. “As you can see, there isn’t a single perspective and we’re looking at the man from several different angles, and the different geometric shapes that build up his body appear to be not attached to one another and, indeed, to be tumbling down.”

“Yes, I believe I said I knew what cubism was,” Hermione said. Draco had come up beside her. “Do you think she had a specific model in mind?”

“No,” Carlton said.

She didn’t think he was right. She was pretty sure she knew who this was meant to be. “I want this one,” she said suddenly. Uncomfortable sympathy, maybe, or maybe it was the way the portrait looked at her with too much understanding. She shook her head to try to clear that thought away. She was surely projecting that.

“This one?” Draco asked. Before she could confirm he’d waved over a gallery assistant and was murmuring to her in a quiet voice. Wealth was so odd. She wanted something, and now it was hers. She heard the delight in the sales girl’s voice as she assured Draco the work would be delivered as soon as the show was over, would he like her to send an owl to confirm the best time?

“That would be fine,” Draco said. He took her arm and led her deeper into the gallery and instead of Arabella Figg’s disjointed and fascinating portraits, she found herself staring at a very large set of nipples.

“_The Nymph_,” Carlton said. Someone came up behind them and hissed something at Carlton. “Not now,” he said. “Can’t you see I’m talking to a man who likes art?”

“No,” the man said. “Now.”

“Have we met?” Draco asked.

“No,” the man said. The words were clipped and dismissive. “I don’t think we have.”

Draco held his hand out. “Draco Malfoy,” he said.

“I know who you are,” the man said. Draco kept his hand out and the utter awkwardness of that forced the man to take it. Point to Draco, Hermione thought. So few people could stomach being as flat out rude as Harry could manage without batting a single, green eye. “You can call me John Smythe.”

The agitator from one of their earlier visits. Of course. This one was far less of a hypocrite and the Malfoy money didn’t move him the way it moved Carlton.

“Great,” Carlton said. “Now that you’ve introduced yourself, _John_, go away.” If they wanted to maintain any sort of pretense that John wasn’t a fake name, Carlton shouldn’t have put so much emphasis on it, Hermione thought. These people just weren’t good at conspiracy.

“I can’t,” John said. “It’s starting.”

Hermione shoved past him at that, almost running to the glass panes that faced the street. Dozens – no more – of witches and wizards were marching in the street. She saw an effigy of Corban Yaxley. It was on fire.

“We rise,” screamed a witch as she went past.

“The time is now,” yelled another.

“Maybe you don’t want to be here right now,” John Smythe said. He sounded smug and she had a feeling he wanted to throw her to the mob.

Harry apparated into the street right in front of the door and shoved it open. “Hermione,” he said. “Christ, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Is now really the best time to be looking at art? And what’s with that ugly portrait of Snape?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to moonlightmasquerade for a most excellent and quick beta reading job! Any remainings issues are, of course, mea culpa.


	45. Chapter 45

Draco put his arm around her waist.

The primitive show of possession was more irritating than charming, and she had to stop herself from shaking him off. She and Harry had never been a couple. Draco didn’t need to mark her as his. 

“Could you manage to avoid insulting the artwork?” Draco asked smoothly. “We just bought it.”

Harry glanced at the portrait of Snape, still sneering at them from the wall, and rolled his eyes. “Figures,” he said. “You always were the sort to have more money than taste.”

They had more important things to talk about. “When did you get here?” she asked, brushing aside Harry’s opinion. “What’s going on? Who else is here? Where’s Ron?”

“Portkeyed over this morning,” Harry said. “Been looking for you since. Didn’t you get the note?”

Hermione felt a quick flash of guilt. She had stopped checking for protean charm messages long ago. The Order had left her on her own, and she’d moved forward without them. She hasn’t had time to wait for instructions -- or the heart to check every day for messages that never came. Harry, who had always been more perceptive than people give him credit for, read all of that as it flickered across her face.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I found you, and you’re right near the marching anyway. Let’s go.”

“Do you mind if I ask how you found her?” Draco asked.

Harry looked delighted. This was a revelation he wanted to share and Hermione crossed her arms. These two needed to stop their adolescent posturing. 

"The bracelet,” Harry said. Their confusion was clear. Harry’s smile grew. “We all looked at it pretty carefully when you first sent it to her. Molly added a tracking charm. It’s not the best, and it’s been so long it’s getting a bit wonky, but, well, you know her.”

“Molly Weasley did that?” Hermione asked. Her heart ached with that realisation: Ron’s mother had given them a way to find her and never mentioned it. Something burned in the corner of her eyes, and her breath shuddered. She pushed her lips together to try and force herself into some semblance of calm. They had never abandoned her. There had always been a thread to bring her home again.

“She made that clock, after all,” Harry said. “It’s the same basic principle.”

Hermione didn’t think it was the same principle at all. She hadn’t noticed Molly doing a single thing to the bracelet. All those months and months and months ago she had picked the thing up, weighed it in her hands, and sniffed derisively. Hermione had assumed Molly hadn’t cared for the ostentatious display of wealth. Yet, in that brief moment of contact, Molly had added an enchantment so powerful they would be able to find her, and one not a single Malfoy had noticed. It was impressive magic. Beyond impressive. It was so easy to forget what a powerful witch Molly was. People dismissed housewives in the same way they dismissed socialites.

“Right,” she said, keeping the tremor out of her voice. “So, we’re marching?”

“On the Ministry,” Harry said. He flicked a glance at Draco. “You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Draco said.

‘John Smythe’ managed to insert himself between them. “You can’t,” he said to Harry. “They’re… he’s a _Malfoy_ and so is she. They’re -.”

“Oh, shove off,” Harry snapped. “I’d trust Hermione with my life. I _have_ trusted her with my life. Who the fuck are you?”

“But he’s,” Smythe said, gesturing weakly at Draco.

“A man with bad taste in art,” Harry said. He looked at Draco, Hermione could feel the blood rushing in her ears as she waited to see what would happen. The pair of them had hated one another for so long. They hadn’t just been rivals; they had loathed one another, and with good reasons. All that history hovered between them and then, with a sigh, it dissolved. They looked at one another, they acknowledged their history in a long glance, and they let it go. “You with us?”

“Marching,” Draco said with a dramatic sigh. He knew what had just happened and felt the weight of it as surely a Hermione did. “And me in good shoes.”

Harry glanced down at Draco’s surely bespoke dress shoes. “You’ll live,” he said.

“But the blisters, Potter,” Draco said as he held the door for both of them. “The _blisters_.”

Hermione looped one arm around each of them as they joined the parade. For a brief moment they were a group, protesting together. They matched their steps to one another’s and moved as if they were a single entity. Hogwarts students. War survivors. Friends. Someone shoved a sign into Hermione’s hands, and she had to let the two men go, jabbing the placard toward the sky. She looked around, searching the crowd for a flash of familiar red hair. She saw Percy, off to one side of the group, and he nodded at her. One of his hands held a sign of his own, the other was gripping his photographer girlfriend. She smiled at Hermione with a look of fierce rage in her eyes. Yaxley had assumed he had this under control. He did not.

Hermione didn’t know whether it had been the steady stream of propaganda Percy had slid into the papers, or the allegations against the Carrows and the Lestranges, or even the slow, steady revelations about corruption and bribery. Something had turned the masses against the Ministry. Hermione didn’t mind being one weight added to the lever if, in the end, things got moved.

Another scan of the people marching and she caught sight of more ginger hair, but this time it was on Ginny’s head. She should have gone over, and said hello, maybe given her a hug, but the truth was this: Ginny was Harry’s girl and Ron’s sister. Hermione and Ginny had only ever been the most casual sort of friends. They never would be more.

Finally, he appeared.

He pushed his way past a woman and past Draco and then Ron – her Ron – was standing in front of her, blocking her way. His arms half out as though he wasn’t sure whether he should hug her. As though he wasn’t sure whether she would slap him.

Given their history, it was a reasonable fear.

She pushed herself forward, into his embrace. 

He smelled the way he always had. Sweets, she thought, and a bit of wet wool from the jumpers his mother knit. It was the smell of home, but the home of childhood. It was the home you went back to at the holidays, standing in the doorway, happy to be back but shocked that the place seemed so small. She held him away from her and studied him, her hands on his shoulders. He looked so much the same. Same crooked smile. Same freckles. 

Draco brushed against her, and Harry stepped away, giving them a little space for this reunion.

She asked, “How’s the baby?”

She didn’t realize until she heard the words how they might sound. She hadn’t meant them to be cruel, or dismissive. The lines of his face dipped toward a frown until she added, “I saw a photograph of Gabrielle, and she looked beautiful.” 

In the language of old friends that meant, _I forgive you_, and he heard it. His shoulders eased and he pulled her in for another hug, this one tighter and so long Draco let out a cough. “People are going to trample us if we don’t get moving, Weasley,” he said.

_Let go of my wife_, he meant.

Ron let go.

They all started walking again. “She is beautiful,” Ron said.

“Veela are,” Draco said with a sly smile. “She must be besieged whenever you go out.”

“People stare,” Ron admitted. Hermione remembered Draco telling her that marrying Gabrielle was an act of self-sabotage, that Ron, always the least secure of the Weasley siblings, would spend his life watching men admire the woman he loved, never quite sure whether she’d only ended up with him because of the pregnancy. Hermione couldn’t tell if she hoped that weren’t true, or rather enjoyed the slightly grim set to Ron’s mouth. “I hate it.”

There was forgiveness, but there was also payback.

“I’m sure she adores you,” Hermione said. “How could she not?”

Ron’s smile perked up a bit at that. “I’m sure you could give her a list of reasons I’m an arse.”

“I make that list for Draco alone,” Hermione said.

Draco eyed her. She could see his mind working as he frowned. Had she meant she only made a list of Ron’s flaws to share with him, or that the only man whose flaws she bothered to enumerate were his. She smiled at him with every ounce of bland Narcissa power, and those grey eyes twitched just a little. “You’re a demon,” he said quietly.

“We’re well matched,” she said. She hooked her free hand through his and held on, looking to Ron. “Where is Gabrielle?”

“At home,” Ron said. As Ron was speaking, she could feel tremors spasm again through Draco hand. She spared a quick flash of hatred for Yaxley and the way he utilized torture. Some things never quite healed. In some ways, none of them would ever be right again. Then she forced herself to focus on Ron, who was still talking. “The baby is so young, we didn’t want her to portkey, and this isn’t the safest place for a new mother.”

“I understand,” Hermione said. She did, too. This wasn’t Gabrielle Delacour’s fight. Let them finish it now. Let them finish what Voldemort had started and put him in the ground--her and Ron and Harry and, yes, Draco too, and wankers like that John Smythe and quiet souls no one had listened to last time around like Arabella Figg It was time to burn his fascist legacy to the ground and salt the soil so nothing like it could ever take root in wizarding Britain again.

She and Harry and Ron and… Rodolphus Lestrange?

She stopped walking at the sight of the Lestrange brother. He had his son by the hand, and was eyeing Harry with a glitter in his eyes. “God-slayer,” he said, and the words sounded fervent, even ecstatic. “You’ve returned.”

Harry glanced at her and she mentally kicked herself for not having prepared him for this. Lestrange had been a weak man filled with hatred who’d found someone to worship and now, broken by his god’s death, he’d latched on to the next thing in line. 

“He thinks because you killed Voldemort, you’re his natural heir,” Hermione said in an undertone. “A bit loony but I think he’s on our side. Play along.”

“And then we get him into St. Mungo’s, right?” Ron asked. He was watching Rodolphus with a look of sad recognition. Not pity, really. None of them would ever be able to work up pity for the dedicated servants who’d worked for Voldemort’s return. But they all recognized the broken, even if they were on the other side. “He’s starkers, Hermione.”

“A locked ward,” she said. “Maybe it will help.” She doubted it would. 

Lestrange pushed his son forward. “You remember Archibald, don’t you, Hermione? God-slayer’s prophet?”

“Archibald is the god-slayer’s prophet?” Ron asked quietly.

“No,” Hermione said. “I am.”

Ron muffled his laugh. Hermione tried to subtly smack him on the arm, and turned what she hoped was a reassuring smile onto Archibald. 

“Hullo,” Hermione said. “How are you doing?”

His smile was mostly welcoming. Far more welcoming than she deserved.

“How did you meet the god-slayer’s prophet?” Ron asked Archibald brightly, all the manners Molly Weasley forced into her offspring rising at the worst possible time.

“She crucioed me,” Archibald said. Hermione tried not to flinch as Ron turned his eyes onto her. Harry’s followed.

“Really?” Harry asked her. She could hear the condemnation. “A child?”

“I’ve had much worse,” Archibald said. He didn’t care about the crucio. He cared about who was in front of him. “Are you really Potter?” he asked. “Did you really do all those things?”

“Archibald admires you very much,” Hermione said as a pair of witches stepped neatly around her, a banner condemning Yaxley held between them. “He told me all about you when I went to visit him at St. Mungo’s.” Harry wasn’t always the best about picking up hints, but she tried to will him to pick up this one. His frown deepened as he looked at the boy, and Hermione gritted her teeth. She’d done a lot of things since she’d arrived at Malfoy Manor, but torturing that boy might have been the only one she was really ashamed of. 

She’d had to do it. Spies had to do a lot of things they didn’t like. She would have preferred that this particular bit of her corruption wasn’t shoved in Harry’s face like this. It wasn’t fair they saw this first.

Harry took a deep breath. “I’ve done a lot of things,” he said. “Some of what you’ve heard is probably exaggerated. Rumor never gets things exactly right, you know.”

How Hermione knew.

“But you killed Voldemort,” Archibald said. That was what he really cared about, after all. It was what everyone cared about.

Harry nodded. “I did.”

“And you’re going to kill Yaxley,” Archibald said, with absolute confidence. “And then be the leader.”

Harry hesitated at that.

Archibald fished down in his pocket and pulled out a frog card. He thrust it toward Harry. “You’ll sign this, right?” he asked.

Hermione could see the way Harry glanced briefly up at Rodolphus Lestrange. She knew the entire encounter had to be surreal from his perspective: a Death Eater’s son turned fanboy. 

People were stepping around them and bumping into them as they marched. Their little drama was getting in the way of the protest. They needed to move this along and she tried to at least push them to side of the march, but none of them let themselves be moved. And she sighed. “Archibald’s father helped get Percy out of prison.” If she could get Harry to sign the damn card, they could return to what mattered: this march.

“Did you?” Harry asked. Ron pulled a broken quill out of his pocket and handed it to Harry, then twisted and bent over so Harry could use his back to support the card. “Well, Percy’s a good man.” He signed his name and passed the card back over to Archibald.

“Anything for the god-slayer,” Rodolphus said, eyes gleaming with a light that heralded a monologue. “We’re all on his side.”

“Indeed.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She recognized the voice of Antonin Dolohov all too well. Draco shook next to her, another round of tremors coursing through his body.

“Aren’t we all on the same side, Mrs. Malfoy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Bethan (@agapic) for beta reading. She is a most amazing editor and coaxed a stream of consciousness mess into coherence.


	46. Chapter 46

Hermione forced a smile to her face. Naturally, Dolohov would show up at this inconvenient time. Why couldn’t he just stay under a rock like the insect that he was? He was a complication she didn’t need. Not right now.  
  
Ron already had his wand pointed at the former Death Eater. “There’s more of us than there are of you, Dolohov,” he said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you right now.”  
  
Hermione could feel Dolohov’s smirk slither along the back of her neck. God, she wanted to tell Ron to just do it. She wanted to do it herself. It would be so easy. She could see the beating of Dolohov’s pulse at the side of his neck. It would take just the tiniest of curses to put a cut there, to slice open his artery, to watch him bleed to death at her feet. And, looking at his smug face, she could barely contain herself. Then she glanced over at Draco. It wasn’t that he would stop her. He was probably entertaining similar fantasies. But, for all that his father was a malicious drunk and his mother terrible, he loved them. And she loved him. And she didn’t want to let Dolohov ruin them all with his carefully constructed blackmail.

The deep breath she took to center herself stung her throat as though she were inhaling poison, but she held a hand out toward Ron and said, “No, put it away.”  
  
Ron looked at her incredulously. Dolohov's smug face grew even less attractive as she did what he wanted.  
  
“It isn’t that he’s not a piece of shit," she said. No point trying to put too much lipstick on this pig. There was only so much Ron would believe and only so much she could stomach. “But he has been helping to arrange some of the blackmail materials."

“The lovely letters Mrs. Malfoy has been sending to you?” Dolohov said. “The things that helped you set all this up?” He waved a hand to take in the crowds and the signs and even the graffiti of the rising phoenix charmed onto a wall. “I knew about it all.”

“He did,” Hermione said grimly. It was adorable how he was telling the exact truth. So adorable she hoped he’d choke. 

He smiled at her and resolutely did not choke.

“You’re telling me Antonin Dolohov has been on our side?" Ron clearly thought she had lost her mind. It was, she had to admit, a reasonable supposition. In his place, she’d think the same thing.  
  
“I’m telling you he was smart enough to know which way the wind was blowing and join the winners," Hermione said. She could be just as technically honest as that bastard. She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. She’d been so happy just a few moments before. They had been marching. She was reunited with Ron and Harry. Little Archibald Lestrange had his signed frog cards which made her feel she’d somehow righted that wrong. Everything had been right with the world. And now this. What had her life come to that she was talking her best friends out of murdering this man? Her shoulder still bore the scars of his curse.   
  
“It doesn’t work out well if you slaughter turncoats," Draco said rather dryly when no one else said anything. “Other people become less motivated to change sides."  
  
“Well, look who’s gotten an opinion on that," Ron said, “Surprise, surprise,” but the moment passed and he lowered his wand. The Death Eater got to live another day.

Goody.

Dolohov fell into step alongside them as if he belonged there and no matter how much Hermione hoped a convenient attack by angry wasps would get rid of him, he seemed more than pleased to be seen alongside the Chosen One and his entourage.

At least he would be another wand on their side. She would take the silver linings she could get. She wouldn’t let a need for purity keep her from winning. People who clung too tightly to ideology lost. 

Besides, she could always kill him later, once she tracked down how he had his safety net arranged. Once she’d removed it. For now, they marched and it would be fine.  
  
A few steps further into the fray, however, and any belief they could do this and get it over with was ruined again, this time by Narcissa Malfoy. She emerged out of nowhere, wrinkled her nose with displeasure at the sight of Ron and Harry, then turned to lay one cool white palm along Dolohov’s cheek.  
  
“Well, the gang’s all here," Ron said. “Any more Death Eaters plan to join us for this march to freedom? Maybe Fenrir Greyback can come along?"  
  
Hermione shot him a dirty look which he ignored.

“I was always a big fan of Snape,” Harry said.

She decided to ignore that too.  
  
“Mother," Draco said, his tone guarded. “What are you doing here?"  
  
She ignored them to smile at Dolohov. Hermione had faced a lot of evil men and women in her day. The Carrows. Yaxley. She had been tortured by this woman’s sister. She had seen Harry kill a monster made from myth and horror. She still thought she would have nightmares about Narcissa’s smile.  
  
“I just wanted to come by and say hello to my old friend," Narcissa said. She slid her palm along Dolohov’s jaw in a gesture that was uncomfortably intimate, caressing him until her thumb rested at the base of his throat. Then she pushed in. Hard. A shock of blue light flared up and Dolohov stepped back in shock.  
  
“What was that?" he asked, his hand flying to his throat. He looked like he was trying to drag the spell out, but the blue light settled into his skin, gleamed, and then sank away. Despite the fading light, Hermione didn’t believe the magic itself had dissipated.   
  
“It is a gentle reminder of what happens to people who speak ill of the Malfoys,” Narcissa said.   
  
“Mother?" Draco asked. “What have you done?”  
  
She didn’t acknowledge his question directly but she did give an explanation. Even the most refined of the wretched, wizarding world aristocracy couldn’t resist the urge to grandstand a little, it seemed. “As long as you never say anything bad about or cause any harm to my family, nothing will happen to you," she said. Her smile became even more predatory. “If you do, however, that curse will choke the air from your throat and you will die gasping on the floor."  
  
“How does that work?" Ron asked. "Not that I object, or anything. I'm just having trouble believing you. That’s not something taught at Hogwarts." Or by Moody, who knew more than his share of curses best left unmentioned but that he’d passed along to the Order anyway.  
  
"You children," Narcissa said dismissively. "You think you know everything by eighteen."  
  
“You can’t power a curse for that long," Dolohov said, agreeing with Ron. “I know you are a remarkable witch, Narcissa, but that threat is empty."  
  
“Which is why I built a power source into the curse," Narcissa said, and for the first time Hermione realized that this was a custom spell that her mother-in-law had designed. She hadn’t pulled it from some decrepit tome on black magic. She shivered. She preferred to think of Draco’s family as people who had made a few bad choices rather than a group of truly Dark witches and wizards. Maybe, when this was over, they could move out of the Manor, away from his parents, into a small flat of their own. One without Dark artifacts. One with a cat.

“Explain,” Dolohov demanded tightly. His hand was back at his throat.

“It feeds off of your own magic use,” Narcissa said. She sounded inordinately pleased with herself. “Every time you cast a spell, the one living within you will be re-energized and strengthened."  
  
“What if he doesn’t use magic?" Hermione asked.  
  
Narcissa shrugged. It was a delicate, ladylike gesture, filled with elegance and poison. “If he can live like a squib for fifteen years – maybe twenty – then the curse will fade away.”  
  
Dolohov spoke through gritted teeth when he said, “How fortunate, then, that I have no plans to malign your family."  
  
“Of course not," Narcissa said. She turned her back on him and reached her hand up to tuck a lock of Draco's hair behind one ear. “No one would be so foolish.”

Well, maybe one person would.

“Traitor,” came a hiss from the sidelines of the march and Hermione turned. This march was just one annoying complication after another and she had just about had it. What little sense of patience she had left disappeared when she saw the speaker. She’d assumed the slur had been directed at her or Draco. She’d practically gotten used to being hated by both sides. She let out a little laugh at the vanity of that. Not everything was about them, and Pansy Parkinson, chic in heels and a neat pink skirt, didn’t care about her in the least. No, her manicured finger was pointed at Dolohov. 

“Miss Parkinson.” Narcissa sounded amused. “Shouldn’t you be off writing your little fictions?”

Pansy’s finger shook as she pointed it at the Death Eater. The wobble reminded Hermione of the way Draco’s hands still trembled when he was stressed or tired, and she wondered if Pansy has suffered her own share of crucios that last year at Hogwarts. “You,” Pansy said. “You are a Ministry man in name only.”

Dolohov peered at her, then turned to Narcissa. “Am I supposed to know who that girl is?” he asked.

“She writes books,” Narcissa said with contemptuous purse of her lips. “Not very good ones, but they sell well enough I suppose.”

“Why is she pointing at me?” he asked.

“She’s a bit of a shill for Yaxley,” Draco supplied, earning him a glare of his own from Pansy. He shrugged at her. “It’s true, Pans, and you know it.”

“You’re just jealous,” she said. “You with your Mudblood wife and your failing family. You know I’m the wave of what’s to come, and that -.”

“I know you’re deplorable,” he said, cutting her off. He took a few steps toward her. “Pansy,” he said, and his voice was low and urgent. “These people, you know they aren’t good. How can you have forgotten what the Carrows did to us? Did to everyone? It’s -.”

“It’s the fault of people like you,” Pansy said. “People like the elite who only care about yourselves. People like me, ordinary people, are the real victims here. Mudbloods make the world dangerous, letting Muggles in, and protests like this just incite violence. We need civil discourse and -.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, and to Hermione’s surprise he sounded as if he really were. “I’m so sorry, Pans.”

“You should be sorry,” she said. She pointed at Dolohov again. “I’m going to tell everyone what a traitor you are. Look for your name in the paper tomorrow. Owls… hundreds of owls coming to your house.” She sounded frantic, almost to the point of hysteria, and spun on one of her stiletto heels before apparating away into nothing.

Dolohov didn’t look pained by that threat. If anything, he had to be pleased at how the idiot girl he didn’t know was going to make his switching sides absolutely clear to everyone. It couldn’t have worked out better for him if he’d tried. That left a sour taste in Hermione’s mouth. She preferred Narcissa’s curse.

“Silver plate,” Narcissa said. Hermione had no idea what that meant, and when she shook her head, confused, Narcissa smiled with wicked delight. “Some people are nothing but surface,” she said. “Like cheap silverware, there is a bit of precious metal on the outside but rub at them a little and their real nature appears.”

“My mother means Pansy is cheap,” Draco said. He sounded tired. “False.”

“It’s far better to be honest iron than pretend to be something better than what you are,” Narcissa said. 

Ron gave her a disgusted look. “That might be the most classist thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

“You thought I was some sort of egalitarian?” Narcissa asked. That was unanswerable, so they all fell silent as she fussed with Draco’s hair again, patted Hermione on the arm, then said, “When this little problem has been taken care of, I will see you back at the Manor. I have been baking."  
  
She stepped away into nothing else, the crack of apparition almost in audible, and Hermione was left staring at empty space.  
  
“So that’s your mother-in-law," Harry said. “Nice. Dinners must be fun."  
  
Hermione thought about Molly Weasley, sending the extra girl off into danger. Harry didn’t have any room to complain about other people’s in-laws. Maybe Molly had left a tether attached to Draco's diamond bracelet, but she hadn’t hesitated to protect her own and send the outsider away. Narcissa and Molly were not that different from one another and both were enough like her to make her a little uncomfortable. She didn’t care for Harry’s criticism.

She covered her annoyance with the whole thing by wiping her palms along the front of her trousers. The feel of the wool – better than anything she could have afforded before she married into this family – just irritated her more. "Well," she said. “I guess we're all going back to the Manor after this for tea and biscuits."  
  
That turned out not to be the case. The rest of the march to the ministry went without incident. They waived their placards and shouted their slogans and the energy buoyed Hermione up. Dolohov was a nightmare, and Narcissa perpetually unreadable, but surely a group of people who were this right and had this much support could not possibly fail. Draco handed her a sign and she waved it at the sky with violent joy. They were right. They were just. They would win.  
  
She believed that right until the moment the aurors, arranged in a line outside the ministry, opened fire on the crowd of protesters.


	47. Chapter 47

The carnage was immediate. The protesters have been singing songs, and waving signs. Some had come as though they were going to a party and were passing food around. They had brought children with them. They hadn’t expected any real trouble. Even when they saw the line of Aurors stretched out in front of the ministry building, wands at the ready, no one expected them to attack.  
  
Certainly no one expected them to use Unforgivables.  
  
When Hermione saw the first flare of green light shoot forth from the tip of an Auror's wand, she thought she had to be mistaken. There were other spells that flared green. There had to be. She couldn’t think of any of them at the moment, but she was sure she was right. Then the young witch crumpled to the ground, dead, and for a brief moment, all she could do was look at the body and think, “That can’t be right."  
  
Then she drew her own wand and fired back.  
  
Dolohov didn’t hold back. She had to give him that. He might be an evil man, and a coward, and an opportunist, but he drew his own wand and began firing on the Aurors without hesitation. He knew a lot of spells, and a lot of them were nasty. He took down two Aurors almost at once, both of them staggering under the pain of the curses that hit them, and, as much as she didn’t want to be, Hermione was impressed. If they lost, Yaxley might skin Dolohov alive for this. It was certainly cementing his status as one of the “good guys."  
  
Whatever Ron and Harry had been doing in France, they hadn’t lost their fighting edge. Ron had his wand out and his sights on an Auror even before Hermione did. He spun and twisted and shot, and men in front of the ministry fell. Others came to replace them, though. Yaxley had the numbers and for every man they killed, another one stepped out of the building, ready to take his place. There were screams all around, and people running, and what little order there had been to the march broke down. Hermione could see Draco fighting. His mouth was set in a grim line and, though his hands shook, the curses he uttered landed true. Ministry men fell as he willed them too.

And more came to take their places.  
  
She, Ron, Harry, Draco - they were all good fighters, but most of the crowd was not. Most of these people had never experienced anything more dangerous than going to a slightly seditious art exhibition. They were unprepared and they were dying. She had to get them out. She turned and grabbed the nearest non-fighter she saw, a young wizard, and shook him. He looked at her with wide, scared eyes. “Can you apparate?" she demanded.  
  
“I… I don’t have my license," he began. The concern with rules made her want to scream. People were cursing them. Their own government had attacked them. This was not the time to worry too much about whether you had all the proper paperwork.  
  
“Fuck the licenses," Hermione said. “Can you apparate? Can you side-along?"  
  
When he nodded, she said, “Get as many people out if you can. Start an evacuation."  
  
People begin to pop away as they gathered their wits. She saw the boy she had deputized and emboldened grab a child who had become separated from his parents and apparate him away to safety. She saw him come back and grab an elderly witch who had broken down and was crying. “How many times do we have to fight this battle?” she was asking as she disappeared with a crack.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw a flash of white light and twirled around, expecting to have to battle an Auror who had somehow worked his way down into the mass of protesters. Instead, she saw Percy Weasley's girlfriend, the little society photographer, her camera out.

She snapped a photo of a young woman falling to the ground as a curse struck her and lying there, still and lifeless.

She snapped a photo of an older wizard, dressed in robes so expensive you could tell at a glance he had never known want. He was putting his body between the Aurors and the fleeing protesters. He took a curse to his shoulder and stumbled, hand at the injury, before he pulled himself up to block two more curses and give more people time to escape. It took five shots to bring him down.

She snapped a photo of a toddler, alone and lost and crying, blood running down her cheek.

Even as Hermione watched, a stranger snatched the child up and apparated away. The people of Wizarding Britain were protecting their own. Part of her wanted to be outraged that this photographer – and why couldn’t she remembered her name? - was making pictures instead of helping. She wanted to scream at her, you rescue that child. Don’t take a photograph of her. Save her! But the revolution needed this. They needed proof that this was happening and photographs were one of the best ways to spread the word. They could have these printed and posted on the walls of every alley by the end of the day. Sometimes, having access to art galleries and magical printing systems came in handy. This afternoon the presses wouldn’t be running off copies of Arabella’s painting of Severus Snape. Today it would be endless editions of these photographs documenting government atrocities. The time for subtlety had ended.  
  
The green curses continued to flare, and protesters continued to drop, and Hermione raged against her own stupidity. “Constant vigilance," Moody had always said. He had said it so many times it sometimes echoed in her sleep. And instead of being vigilant, she had marched with a bunch of innocents headlong into danger. She had trusted no one would attack a group like this in broad daylight, and what had Draco told her the very first night she had spent at Malfoy Manor?  
  
Trust no one.

She should have listened.

She heard Rodolphus Lestrange let out a horrible wail. He was crouched over the body of the boy he’d called his son. Archibald still had one of Harry’s frog cards in his fingers but Hermione could tell he wasn’t going to get a chance to put it in whatever album he used for his treasures. She took a step toward Lestrange, ready to offer him solace. Even a monster didn’t deserve to lose a child. 

He sprang away from the body, snarling, and lunged toward the line of Aurors. He had his hands out, wand held loosely between two fingers, and it flicked back and forth with such fluidity she thought he was on the verge of dropping it. But every twitch of his hand resulted in an Auror falling, and she realized he was controlling every shot. “We were his chosen,” Rodolphus said. The words were a keening elegy for a life he’d lost. “We were the faithful. We alone did not desert him.”

A curse struck him, the light purple, streaked with yellow, but he kept going.

“I know things you’ve never dreamed of. I’ve cast spells you can’t begin to fathom,” he said as he stalked relentlessly toward the Ministry building. The Aurors turned their fire on him and him alone as he swept his arm along their line and a dozen men fell. “We were like gods.” He was almost screaming now, spittle flying from his mouth. 

He fell to his knees as another curse hit him. “We were like gods,” he said softly this time, and then he folded in on himself. Hermione thought she might have been the only one who heard him add, “And the god-slayer will strike you all down,” before he died.

“Mad to the end,” Ron said, suddenly beside her and waking her back to the dangers around them. “You know how to pick them, Hermione.”

  
She supposed she did. She turned her back on the fallen man, a tool she’d used and fired her curses. She tuned out the screams, and she pushed the crowd back as they retreated from the firing arm of the ministry. When the crowd thinned and they were down to the sorts of people who knew how to handle themselves, people with scars and eyes that weren’t surprised by any of this, Hermione looked at Harry. What did he want to do? In the end, it was always his show.   
  
"That safe-house in the woods," he said shortly. “Where we played Exploding Snap that time with Luna. Up north.”  
  
Hermione nodded. She knew the place. She grabbed Draco by the arm and apparated away to a sanctuary she hoped was still there.  
  
For a wonder, it was. Safe, empty, and dusty. Hermione popped into existence on the porch, Draco in her grasp, and turned to him at once., “Are you okay?" she asked urgently. She ran her eyes over the parts of him that she could see. No cuts, no bleeding, no obvious bruising. That was reassuring. There were worse curses, though. Things that didn’t show any sign of injury but they killed you just the same. “Did you get hit?"  
  
He shook his head. “How about you?" he asked.  
  
She was fine, but before she could answer, Ron appeared, Harry right behind him.

“So,” Harry said, “Does this mean the offer for biscuits over at Draco’s is no good?”

Hermione tried not to choke on the laugh that wanted to come up.

“Well,” Ron said. “I didn’t trust Narcissa Malfoy’s cooking anyway.”  
  
There was a moment of shocked silence, and Hermione worried that Draco would be offended, but instead he laughed. The laughter might have been changed with a little hysteria but there was no resentment. “She sometimes over does it with the butter," Draco said. “Makes them a bit greasy.”  
  
He and Ron looked at one another and then Ron said, “Well, I do like biscuits with a lot of butter. Maybe we can try again another day."

“Put your dirty feet all over her rugs,” Harry said. “Be silver plate at her. Not truly precious metal, or whatever her thing is.”

“Oh, I’m a pureblood,” Ron said. “I’m super precious.” He pushed open the door of the small cottage and flicked on a light. A dull table still sat in the corner, chairs neatly tucked in. The Exploding Snap cards were stacked in the center of the table, a radio next to them. 

Hermione was fixing up a pot of tea from leaves so old they should’ve been thrown away before anyone spoke again.

“How long do you think it will take Percy and his girlfriend to get those photographs up?" she asked.  
  
Harry gave her a perplexed look and Ron busied himself with finding sugar for the tea. He’s always done things like that when he didn’t want to admit he wasn’t following a conversation. Seeing him peer into the cupboards, trying to look busy, gave Hermione a brief and painful flash of nostalgia mixed with gratitude they’d both found happiness elsewhere. She opened her mouth to explain, but before she could say anything Draco let out a tense laugh.   
  
“Couple of hours would be my guess," he said. “At least. She’s got to develop the film, and that takes time even with magic.”

“Percy’ll take care of it,” Hermione said. He would, too. She could trust Percy absolutely to make sure that film got developed, got printed, that those images were spread to every corner of the country. Yaxley hadn’t liked one peaceful protest? That had made him afraid? Now he’d be facing riots. You didn’t like Aurors up and tell them it was fine to shoot Unforgivable curses at children and the elderly. You just didn’t. Not if you wanted to stay in power.  
  
“What do you think he’ll do?” Ron asked, clearly meaning Yaxley. He found the sugar and, for a mercy, there were no ants in it. Magical preservation techniques never cease to impress Hermione. Dust could accumulate in a neglected safe house, but food in the cupboards stayed fresh.  
  
“He’ll run," Draco said.  
  
Ron looked doubtful and Harry’s mouth twisted until Draco added, the words so soft it was almost impossible to hear them, “Death eaters always run."  
  
"Voldemort did tend to recruit the cowards," Harry said. "He had a type."

Draco began to scoop sugar into his tea and the clank of his spoon against the porcelain was very loud. So loud that Hermione could hardly believe she heard the next thing Harry said correctly. “He made a few mistakes, though."  
  
"Snape turned out to be not that bad," Ron said. “A massive asshole, of course. But I have to admit he turned out to be fighting for the right side after all. In the end."  
  
"Sometimes, the assholes turn out to be braver than you thought," Harry said. He looked at Draco a little too steadily. “And sometimes, maybe, they were never cowards to begin with."  
  
“And sometimes, they're Corban Yaxley," Hermione said. She absolutely didn’t want to sit through anymore of this touchy-feely reunion. If she let them go on much longer, they might start singing heartwarming songs together and she needed to act. To do things. They were over their schoolboy rivalry. That was great. But maybe everyone could focus on work they had to do. “I think we can safely slot Yaxley into the category of perfectly regular Death Eater."  
  
“Coward," Ron said.  
  
“Bully," Harry said.  
  
“And thus, probably planning to run right now,” Draco said. “Off to some small town in a wizarding country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty, half of Britain’s galleons tucked away in international goblin bank he can snatch later."  
  
“So what do we do?" Ron asked.  
  
Hermione took a sip of her tea and then set the cup down. “We do what we always do," she said. “We stop him."


	48. Chapter 48

It was Ron who found the broadcast, twisting and turning the knob on a radio so ancient Hermione could barely believe it worked at all, much less that he would find a station. She should have had more faith. The crackle of nothing gave way almost at once to the sound of Luna Lovegood mid-sentence, which seemed about right for Luna.

“ – but the lighting is nice."

“I’m not sure the artistic qualities of these photographs is the first thing I noticed about them."

She remembered the co-host from the first time she and Draco had tuned in to the program. Hermione couldn’t place the voice, but a quick glance at Draco confirmed what she suspected. He knew who it was. She nudged him with one foot and raised an eyebrow. He mouthed something to her, but she didn’t understand. Lip reading had never been one of her talents.

“No," Luna was agreeing. “The subject matter is, of course, the most important thing. But the skill of the photographer takes what would already be horrifying documentation of a government run amok and makes it that much more impactful."

“Well, it certainly had an impact on me," the male voice said with his perfect vowels. If he had been a Muggle, Hermione would have called them public school vowels. She nudged Draco again. Not that it mattered, not really, but she was curious.

He knew her well enough to give in and just tell her who it was, even if it meant talking over the radio. “Theodore Nott," he said. The name was, at best, vaguely familiar. She crossed her arms and waited for him to elaborate and, with a sigh, Draco indulged her. “Friend of mine in Slytherin," Draco said. “Father was a Death Eater. He wasn’t on board with that at all, though. Good guy. Smart guy. You’d like him."

“I thought all you snakes loved Voldemort," said Ron.

Draco's tight face relaxed and a sly smile danced across it. Hermione followed his gaze to Harry, who looked confused. “Not Theo. He had a bit of a crush on the Chosen One here." Harry flushed, and Draco’s smile got even bigger. “Hard to side against a rebel movement led by a man you want to shag."

The red in Harry’s cheeks became more vibrant. “Do you guys think you could keep it down?" he asked querulously. “I think it's a bit more important to find out what’s going on rather than list off all our adolescent crushes."

He had a point. They’d missed a bit of the radio conversation. “– pretty outraged, I think."

“Well," Luna said, "I think we should take our rage out for things like this. There are plenty of times you should put anger away, but what happened today at the Ministry?”

“A time for anger,” Theo agreed. “A time for rage.”

“It’s going to echo,” Luna said. “I predict the Ministry is going to regret what they did today.”

“What is it you like to say about things coming back?" Theodore Nott asked her.

“Everything comes back," Luna said. “In unpredictable ways, but everything always comes back."

“A little less philosophy and a little more news," Ron muttered.

As if she’d heard him, Luna began to recount what had happened after the protest turned riot and they fled. Most people had gotten away. The Ministry was officially asking anyone who knew who the organizers of the event had been to please come forward. So far, no one had. There had been an evening edition of the _Daily Prophet_ with an editorial by Pansy Parkinson where she condemned the protesters as troublemakers and issued a call for law and order.

“She says Antonin Dolohov was seen with the protesters," Luna said. “I certainly wasn’t expecting that. Wasn’t he a Death Eater?"

“He was," Theodore confirmed. “But I guess war makes for strange bedfellows."

That drove Luna off into a digression about a cat she once owned that insisted on sleeping on her pillow and her fervent belief that interactions with Grindylows during kittenhood had caused this unusual but charming behavior.

Ron groaned. “Can’t she stay on topic for more than three sentences?"

Her story about the kittens ended, Luna dutifully returned to sharing the news of the day. The pictures that Percy's girlfriend had taken, the ones that Luna thought had nice lighting, had started appearing at dusk. Within a few hours, they were all anyone was talking about. Aurors appeared from the Ministry and ripped them down, but no sooner had one set of prints been destroyed, another set appeared to take their place. There was no hiding what Yaxley had done. It would not be swept under a rug. It was sitting on the dining room table in most of Wizarding Britain, a toxic and loathsome centerpiece.

Luna wandered off again, this time to the subject of an especially good recipe for spotted dick she’d found recently and, when it became clear that neither she nor Theodore had any intention of returning to the day’s events, Harry reached over and clicked the radio off.

The day turned to night. The last time she’d been in this safe house, Hermione had curled up against Ron’s side. Now it was Draco’s feet she pressed her own against, while Ron tossed fitfully alone. The floor was hard. That was one of the many things she’d forgotten about these wartime safe houses. Everything was uncomfortable. The tea was stale, the food charmed into stasis but still old. Any blankets to be found were musty and moth-eaten. She couldn’t sleep. Harry snored away, Ron shifted from one side to the other, and Draco mumbled indistinct bits of phrases too softly to be heard unless you were right next to him, and still her eyes wouldn’t shut and her mind wouldn’t slow.

At last she gave up, pushed the blanket back, and padded as quietly as she could to the small kitchen. Perhaps tea would help. She had the kettle filled and on when Ron joined her.

“Make me a cup?” he asked quietly.

She pulled down a pot and measured out enough tea. Easy enough to make extra. Easy enough to pour more water. Neither said anything more until they were sitting back at the table in the dark, hands wrapped around steaming mugs.

Ron spoke first. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Hermione couldn’t be angry. She was tired, nothing more. “For believing the worst of me? For sleeping around? For getting Gabrielle pregnant when we all know how to do contraception charms?”

Maybe she was a little bit angry.

“All of it?” Ron said. He smiled at her, the same goofy, wide grin that had tugged at her heart from the time they’d been eleven. What a little shite he’d been, calling her a horror because she had trouble making friends. Funny how time made that a fond memory. At the time, she’d thought her heart would break.

He looked down, the dull light from the moon outlining his dark grey shape against the black of the room. “I shouldn’t have… but I did, and there’s no going back now.”

That was true enough. Hermione took a sip of her tea and swallowed. It gave her a moment to think of an answer. _I’m better off without you_, seemed a little too honest. There was being truthful and then there was being cruel. No need to be the latter.

“Are you happy?” she settled on asking. “You seem happy.”

“I am,” he said. “But I -.”

“Then I’m happy,” she said. She reached a hand out to rest across his. He was so solid. Dependable. Most of the time. “Gabrielle is a lucky woman.”

“Hermione, I -.”

“I,” she said, not letting him go on, “am luckier.”

“If he -.”

“And when this is all over, you and Gabrielle will have to bring the baby to England so I can properly dote on her and buy her expensive baby clothes that are impractical and difficult to launder.”

That finally shut him up. She was willing to do a lot of things for Ron. Forgive him, for one. Spoil his child for another. But she was not willing to sit here and listen to him go on about his feelings and how much guilt he felt for betraying her. Whatever she might owe him for the sake of their history, that was not included.

“I’m glad you’re happy too,” he said. He sounded as if he doubted she really could be and it was that, more than anything, that made the exhaustion become too much. She’d spend the rest of her life having to convince her friends she really was happy with the way this had played out. She was coming out of it with a husband she adored, who adored her, and who, more importantly, understood her. This wasn’t a bad thing, even if he had been an utter prat at eleven. She drained her tea.

Ron should be grateful she had a knack for overlooking past sins.

The sleep that had been skittering just out of her reach all night finally seemed willing to drape itself around her. She pressed a kiss to Ron’s forehead before settling back on the floor at Draco’s side. He turned in his sleep to wrap an arm around her, and that was the last thing she knew before the sun woke them both.

Or perhaps it was the static.

Harry was twisting the dial on the radio, looking for more news on the current state of Wizarding Britain. By the time Draco had fried up some bacon and made toast, they’d found a station. The news that Yaxley had ordered the Aurors to open fire on peaceful protesters was resulting in a spread of rioting and demonstrations across the country. Even small villages were burning him in effigy. Marchers filled the streets in any wizarding community large enough to have multiple streets, and more than one protest spilled out into the Muggle world. Obliviators were working overtime.

And London was a kettle about to boil over. Marchers screamed outside the Ministry. Percy Weasley shouted exhortations at the crowd, leading them in chants. Curses went off.

“He’s become the face of the Resistance,” Ron said. He let out a low laugh. “Never would have expected that of rule-abiding Percy.”

“The trial helped,” Hermione said. That had held him up in front of the world as a face they could remember. A martyr.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Bet he never thought when he threw that bomb it would turn out like this.”

“I wonder if Moody did,” Hermione said without thinking. It would be like him, always trying to set up moves a dozen steps ahead, not caring who got hurt along the way as long as the ultimate objective – freedom – was served. She couldn’t quite hate him. Still, he was unscrupulous enough to make her uncomfortable.

“Moody?” Ron asked with a snort. “What does that old blowhard have to do with Percy’s idiocy at the press office?”

Hermione had been buttering her toast. Her hand froze, knife hovering above the bread. “Moody told him to do that,” she said. Was it possible no one had ever told Ron what had really happened? Had Moody kept that to himself?

“No,” Ron said, shaking his head now. “Mum would never let one of us be-.”

He stopped before he could say, _one of us be sacrificed. _Hermione slashed her knife across the toast with far too much vigor. _One of us_. God. Did he even hear himself? “Well, I don’t know whether your mother was consulted,” she said, as levelly as she could, “But Percy has informed me he was acting on Moody’s orders when he blew that building up.”

Harry had put his own breakfast down and was staring at her.

“Moody,” she said, “told Percy to do that knowing he’d get caught, knowing I’d have to testify against him. It was all done to cement my position as a spy no one would suspect.”

“And it worked,” Draco said. He placed a hand on her shoulder. Perhaps he was trying to calm her. She wasn’t sure she could be calmed. The rage she’d felt when Dolohov had boxed her into giving evidence against Percy had bubbled up and spilled onto Moody and, with him, the rest of the Order, where they were safe in France. Safe with their mothers and their wives and their newborns while she slunk through halls and stole intelligence and flattered and lied and risked her life so they could come back at the climax and be the heroes.

Fuck them.

Let Percy be the hero. He’d earned it.

“Let’s go to London,” Hermione said. She was done. “I think we should support your brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to BirdieMing, veiove, and slytherinxbadxgirl for beta reading. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the brief nod to nottpott, a kiss blown to Olivieblake. If you like this fic, you must read her Paradox.


	49. Chapter 49

Percy was leading the protesters in a chant. He smiled briefly at the four of them when they apparated in at the side of the crowd, but his attention was on the masses. Hermione wondered what charm he was using to magnify his voice because he could clearly be heard by everyone attending.

“What do we want?” he called out.

“Yaxley!” they yelled back. The ‘lord’ he liked to affect did not make an appearance.

“When do we want him?”

“Now!”

“Not the most original chant,” Draco murmured in her ear, “but catchy, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione would say, and she did. She clapped her hands along with the crowd, and screamed the responses back at Percy, and she waited to see what would happen. Nothing was what she expected, or more of what had happened the last time, so when an Auror apparated in with a crack, she put a hand on her wand, ready to draw and fire. The Auror leaned in towards Percy and said something into his ear that made him smile before he turned back to face the crowd.

“Witches and wizards,” he said, “I have just gotten some amazing news from Auror Selwyn. Shall we let him speak?”

The responses from the crowd varied. Hermione could hear some people scream, “Yes”, some “No”, and more than one suggested Percy cut the man down where he stood. It had never been a serious question, of course, and Percy stepped back a symbolic half-step and gestured for the man to take the floor.

“I want to start off by apologizing,” he said. “When you last all stood here, my fellow Aurors fired upon you, cursing a crowd of innocent people.”

Boos and hisses swept through the crowd, and Hermione heard someone shout, “So what are you going to do about that, pig?”, but he certainly had the crowd’s attention.

“None of us were happy with the order that sent us out there to use force to break up the protest,” he said. “That isn’t how we do things in this country.”

Percy couldn’t take it any longer and he shouted out to the crowd, “They’ve turned against Yaxley. We have the Aurors!” 

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then cheers went up from the crowds. Hermione pressed her hands against her ears to muffle some of the din, but her smile couldn’t be contained. The Aurors had turned against Yaxley. The rats were deserting his ship. They were really and truly going to win.

“Would you like to see him?” Percy yelled out.

Hermione would not have believed the roar of the crowd could have gotten louder, but it did. Auror Selwyn apparated away, and returned a moment later with two of his brethren. Each of them held one of Yaxley’s arms tightly in his grasp. One of them handed a wand to Percy that Hermione recognized instantly. Yaxley’s eyes followed the journey of his wand, and even from where she stood Hermione could see his fury. “Let’s just start with this,” Percy said, and snapped the wand in half. The crowd gasped and Hermione felt herself gasp along with them. When she looked over at Draco, he had briefly closed his eyes and seemed to sag in relief. He knew what it was like to be hurt by a spell coming from that wand. She touched his shoulder, and he slid an arm around her waist.

“We found him trying to sneak out of London on flying carpet,” one of the Aurors said.

“That’s a weird choice,” Ron muttered, but Hermione shook her head. It made perfect sense. The floo network was being watched, and the Ministry sporadically monitored apparition, checking for non-licensed users. If he wanted to make a clean escape, and preferred not to ride a broom long distances, a flying carpet was a brilliant choice. Illegal, of course, but that wasn’t the sort of consideration Corban Yaxley dwelled on.

Someone near Hermione put his hands together and called out to Percy, “Trial!” The crowd took up the chant and soon hundreds of people were chanting “Tri-al, tri-al” in unison. The thrumming of all the voices seemed more than a little ominous, not least of which because no real trial could be had on the steps of the Ministry, at the hands of a mob. She tried to catch Percy’s eye, but he was managing to look anywhere but at her. He knew it, then, and he didn’t care. Hermione ground her teeth together. This was not right.

“There are so many charges we could address,” Percy said, his voice still carrying over the roar of the crowd, “but let’s keep this simple. Corban Yaxley, you and yours have accepted bribes. You have evaded taxes. You have enriched yourselves at the expense of the people. For all of that, and on behalf of the people of Wizarding Britain, I charge you with economic sabotage. How do you plead?”

Yaxley’s mouth twitched up in a small smile, and he murmured something so quiet only Percy could hear it. His face grew momentarily clouded and he shook his head. Yaxley’s face grew even more smug, and he lifted his shoulders in a little gesture that dismissed all of them as unimportant.

“Hermione Granger,” Percy called out, and she stiffened. This was not what she expected. Yaxley better not be planning to drag her down with him. She’d use every last drop of her friendship with Harry to keep that from happening. She was a loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix, and had been long before she arrived at Malfoy Manor, diamond bracelet in her hands.

“Yes?” she said, trying to keep her voice bored. This was a good time to channel Narcissa Malfoy’s arrogance, so she did.

“Yaxley here tells me the same prophecy that heralded Voldemort’s fall also promises his survival, no matter what we do.”

“Oh?” Hermione couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face, but she held it down to a slight quirking of her lips. Stupid, gullible Yaxley. It was hard to believe that false addition to the prophecy she’d fed him so long ago had taken such a hold but it had. This might be more fun than she had anticipated.

“Yes,” Percy said. Whatever he’d heard in her tone had reassured him, and the tension that had crept into his posture at Yaxley’s calm defiance eased away again. “He tells me the version of the prophecy we all know - “

“Born in the seventh month,” Draco interrupted helpfully with his most arrogant drawl. Hermione was briefly annoyed he’d cut in, but quickly caught on and admired his cleverness. They all knew the details of that stupid prophecy, of course, but they had all been caught in the thick of the war. Most of the people standing out here cheering for this show trial hadn’t been. They may have never even heard of the thing. “Parents thrice – and, really, who says thrice? – defied Voldemort, has a power the Dark Lord knows not –"

“Love,” Harry added.

Ron hummed a few bars of _All You Need is Love_ under his breath. Apparently, Gabrielle liked The Beatles.

“Yes, well we all know how loving you are, Harry,” Draco said with a hint of a smirk, and the crowd laughed. He had them in the palm of his hand. “Neither can live while the other survives.”

“Right,” Percy said. “Yaxley here tells me there was more, not commonly known, and that Hermione Granger told him what it was.”

“You did?” Draco sounded shocked as he pulled back and looked at Hermione. “What did you tell him?”

“But should the Dark Lord perish, the one who follows will be even greater,” Yaxley said. He must know the same charm Percy did, and was managing it without his wand, because his voice carried with ease. Immense satisfaction dripped from every word he uttered. “And every trial shall only strengthen him, and everyone who defies him shall add to his power.”

“Pretty,” Percy said. “Hermione, I don’t remember that bit.” The crowd hushed and waited for her answer.

“It’s because I made it up,” she said.

“You’re no Seer,” Percy said.

“No.” Hermione was enjoying this much too much. The way Yaxley’s face had lost all its color was very gratifying. _Take that, you pompous bastard_, she thought. _Make me kill people to prove my loyalty, will you? _“I’m no Seer. I’m a pretty decent liar, though.”

Another laugh from the crowd, and now, for the first time, Yaxley was struggling to get free, pulling at the arms of the Aurors who held him.

“Since that is settled, and has no bearing, let us go on,” Percy said. “In addition to your numerous financial crimes, which I’ve already mentioned, you, when you were in the employ of one Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, also known as the Dark Lord, were active in his campaign against muggle-borns, and so on behalf of the people of Wizarding Britain, I accuse you of attempted genocide. How do you plead?”

Yaxley wrenched one arm free, hissed, “I do not recognize your right to try me,” and, with a single twist of his wrist, Accioed a wand from one of the people in the crowd. Whatever moment Hermione might have spared to admire the wandless and wordless accomplishment was immediately swallowed by the string of rapid curses Yaxley shot. He managed to kill one of the Aurors, incapacitate another, and began bearing down on Auror Selwyn, who scrambled backward in a sudden panic. None of these people, these bold, brave Aurors, had really fought in the war, and since Yaxley had taken power they’d mostly gone after the weak and the unarmed. They weren’t prepared for a Death Eater of Yaxley’s caliber.

Hermione, however, was. Her wand was in her hand and she fired curses off, one after the other. Harry and Ron followed, and Draco was at her side. All four of them bore down on Yaxley, but he held them off almost effortlessly. Bellatrix had once boasted of her prowess and claimed to know Dark Magic the likes of which they couldn’t imagine. Hermione had seen Lestrange, mad and broken by grief, demonstrate that Death Eater skills weren’t exaggerated. Now Yaxley showed what a man who was both sane and without conscience could do. They were able to keep him on the defensive, keep him from firing into the crowd, but he could hold off the four of them and Percy too, without taking a single hit.

“More,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. “Throw more at him.”

“I am,” Ron grunted.

She flung curse after curse and though they were able to push him into taking a step backward, though they kept him too occupied to apparate away, he wasn’t breaking, and at any moment, one of them would falter and he would escape.

Draco’s curses were growing wilder, some of them missing the mark. Hermione could tell his hands were shaking. He was the weak link in their assault team. 

“You are nothing but children,” Corban Yaxley spat out. “You cannot stop me.”

“You stand accused of economic sabotage and genocide,” Percy said, struggling to get the words out between fired curses. “How. Do. You. Plead?”

Yaxley laughed as he threw a curse at Percy that flung the man backward, knocking him to the ground and ending the steady stream of his curses. “I will not plead anything to the likes of you,” he said. Hermione could feel the electricity in the air. Yaxley was getting ready to apparate, drawing determination and destination to himself, and she could hardly bear it.

Draco’s hand shook again, a curse went wild, and then he flung one more. The stream of green light was familiar, and Yaxley froze, one hand already partially disappearing into the void of apparition, and then he collapsed. His hand reformed as he fell and the stolen ward dropped. The sound of the wooden wand rolling along the steps seemed very loud in the sudden silence, and it clattered down one riser, then another, finally coming to a halt at a woman’s feet. She picked it up and handed it to the man standing next to her.

“An Unforgivable?” Harry asked quietly.

“My hand shook,” Draco said. His voice carried. “The Crucios I’ve suffered, you know. Cause permanent tremors. I meant to hit him with something else.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say that wasn’t how magic worked, then snapped it shut again.

“Right,” Percy said, hauling himself to his feet. “Corban Yaxley still stands accused. How do you, the people, find him?”

There was a pause, then someone yelled out, somewhat uncertainly, “Guilty?”

Another echoed him, and then a fervor overtook them all. Perhaps it was relief the brief battle was over. Perhaps it was bloodlust. Whatever it was, they all began to scream, “Guilty,”, individually at first, then in an increasingly unified chant.

Percy held up a hand and the crowd stilled. “You have been found guilty,” he said to the body at his feet. “I sentence you to death, which, conveniently, has already been taken care of.”

A laugh at that. People were relieved and nervous and that came out in what Hermione thought had to be the most inappropriate response.

“We do need a new minister, however,” Percy said. He glanced out in the crowd as though he were looking for someone.

“I think I was promised biscuits,” Ron said.

“Right.” Draco took Hermione’s hand. “Shall we all go to my place, then?”

The four of them apparated away to the sounds of the crowd chanting “Per-cy Weas-ley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to zunera (zzzoinks) for beta reading!


	50. Chapter 50

**Epilogue**

Luna clicked the microphone to off and looked at Theo. They’d been doing this since Harry and that lot had fucked off to France. She didn’t like French soup and thus had decided she’d rather stay. Plus, the magical mechanics of running a radio broadcast from across the Channel had stumped her. “So,” she said. “That’s that.”

Theo did that thing where he bit his lip and worried at it with his teeth. “I think we won,” he said. 

Luna wasn’t so sure. She liked Percy well enough, but power had a habit of twisting the people who wielded it, and he had developed quite a knack for directing the mob. Between him and that photographer girlfriend of his, wizarding Britain might be in safe hands, or they might have traded an obvious monster for a subtler one. Time would tell whether he liked the taste of authority too much.

Either way, she was tired of the radio broadcast. “Now what?” she asked.

A slow smile bloomed across Theo’s mouth. “Have you ever considered travel?” he asked. “The Notts have a property on the edge of the Black Forest and I hear there have been some interesting creature sightings.”

“What’s the soup like in Germany?” Luna asked, but she was already mentally rummaging through her wardrobe and making a list of things she’d need to buy before they left.

. . . . . . . . . .

Mad-eye Moody clicked off the radio, leaned back in his chair, and smiled. Everything had worked out the way he’d wanted it to. He let his fake eye spin around and adjusted the power so he could see through Gabrielle’s outer clothing but not her very lovely brassiere – he so adored French girls – or, Merlin forbid, her skin. The first few days with the eye had been a quick learning experience. Beauty really was only skin deep. He sighed with rapt pleasure, the turned his attention back to Molly.

He didn’t bother to look through her jumper. Molly also rather liked good underwear, but sagging breasts held up by silk and lace were still sagging breasts and he’d rather not. “So,” he said. “That’s done.”

“All’s well that ends well,” she said. She glanced over at the baby, doing one of her immediate assessments of the state of the nappy, and began to pull down powder and wipes. “And Percy as Minister. I hadn’t expected that.”

Moody shrugged. It had been a crapshoot, of course, but political dissidents who spent time in the public eye on trial often did well afterward. “I thought he might,” he said. “Didn’t tell him, of course, when I told him to bomb that office. But -.”

“When you did what?” Molly’s voice had gotten dangerously quiet and she set the container of Selwyn’s Super-Absorbent Powder down on the counter with a very decisive thump. The baby on the front package glared at being treated thusly and opened its mouth to let out a silent wail.

“When I told him to go bomb that office.” Moody stretched his feet out in front of him. “I knew he’d get himself caught and that Granger girl would have to testify against him. Got her well and truly fixed in with the Malfoys and their ilk, didn’t it? No one doubted her after that.” He closed both eyes and reached up a hand to scratch at his head. Did they have fleas in France? He was starting to wonder if he hadn’t gotten fleas from the Delacour’s kneazle. “I figured, he’d spent a little time in prison and then -.”

Because his eyes were closed, he never felt the slap coming. Molly Weasley was not a dainty woman, and she’d raised seven not-dainty offspring, and she didn’t hold back. The force of the blow nearly knocking him out of his seat, and based on the way blood began to stream from his nose, might have broken something. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?” he demanded.

“Get oot,” Gabrielle said. She had a frying pan in one hand and a furious set to her mouth. “Eef you are not oot of my house by zee time I count to five, I will knock you oot.”

Moody had no idea what had set the crazed pair off, but he hadn’t survived two wars by staying where he wasn’t wanted. He left.

. . . . . . . . .

“These are wonderful, Mrs. Malfoy,” Ron said, reaching for another biscuit. Draco suppressed his urge to roll his eyes. He’d never liked the ginger prat and was unlikely to start any time soon. Lazy. Self-righteous. He’d let Hermione wing her way off to what could have been a nightmare without any realistic plan to rescue her if things went south. And things could have gone very south indeed. That they hadn’t would probably continue to astonish him for the rest of his life. Yaxley dead, Percy Weasley installed as Minister, and his own parents safe at last.

And Hermione.

He flicked his eyes over to where she sat, head down in a conversation with Harry Potter. Potter he was probably going to have to learn to tolerate. He was the Chosen One, and they were friends, and since he hadn’t gone off and conveniently married some French girl he would probably be moving back to Britain. Potter was the sort who would show up at inconvenient times, wholly oblivious to the possibility Hermione might have something better to do than solve his problems.

“Draco.” Hermione looked up with pleasure on her face and he braced himself for what was surely coming next. “Harry and Ginny are planning to move into his townhouse in about a month. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“The Black townhouse?” Narcissa asked.

“Yes,” Potter said, a bit defiantly. “Sirius left it to me.”

Narcissa nodded slowly, and the glint in her eyes made Draco nervous. “If I remember correctly,” she said, “Aunt Walburga never updated that place.”

Potter and Hermione glanced uneasily at one another, but Draco began to positively gloat at what was about to happen. Poor Harry Potter. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. Narcissa Malfoy with a project was a force to be reckoned with or, if you were smart and lucky, avoided. She didn’t want that old dump, not her. What she wanted was –

“You must let me recommend a good decorator,” she said. She was already reaching for a quill and writing a name down. “Not everyone is prepared to cope with the inevitable stash of Dark artifacts, and you’ll need a general contractor as well, and building permits from the Ministry come much more quickly if you have the right witch on the job.”

Harry Potter seemed a bit numb as Narcissa handed the parchment over to him. He couldn’t leave her hand just hanging there, holding something out to him, but he didn’t want to take it either, that much was obvious. Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud as the dumb prat tried to figure out what to do. He finally took the name and shoved it down into his pocket. “Nice of you,” he said. “But you don’t need -.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” Narcissa said. “I can’t let the savior of the wizarding world live in some outdated flat with just hordes of cobwebs and nixies and who knows what else.”

Potter must have thought he’d found a way to keep her from busying herself with his life. “I think Draco was the savior this time around,” he said. 

“And after poor Lestrange was so sure it’d be you,” Ron said. “Can we call you godslayer from now on?”

“No,” Harry said flatly.

“Potter’ll have to share the glory,” Draco said. “And I’ll share my mother’s decorating skills.” Potter looked utterly aghast and lost. He had no idea how to handle social manipulation and Draco began imagining all the horrible presents he could send the man that he would have to accept. Pansy would probably be churning out an unauthorized look at the Weasley family by the end of the week, and she was sure to include a chapter about the girl Weasley and Harry. He could probably get a signed copy if he asked her nicely enough. Or paid her.

“Then we are decided,” Narcissa said. “I’m sure I still have a key. I’ll send her an owl so we can get started tomorrow and I’ll have her send the bills to me.”

Harry looked helplessly at Ron who shrugged and handed him a chocolate covered biscuit. “Have you tried this kind?” he asked. “I think this kind is really quite good.”

Harry took the biscuit.

. . . . . . . . . .

“So,” Pansy Parkinson said, chewing on the tip of her quill as she smiled at the exhausted photographer. “Tell me again how you and Percy Weasley met.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“It will be fine,” Ginny said for the tenth time. She squinted at Harry’s head, dancing in the flames of the floo call. “If she wants to pay for all the renovations that place needs, let her.”

“I don’t like her,” Harry muttered. He knew he was being sullen and ridiculous but he didn’t want to be in Narcissa Malfoy’s debt for anything, and he was pretty sure knowing that was why she’d offered – insisted – on picking up the bill for a decorator he didn’t even want. “She’s horrid.”

Ginny clucked in what he assumed was sympathy. “I could never have done what Hermione did,” she said. “Making nice to the Malfoys. Forever. Can you imagine?”

Harry shuddered. He really didn’t want to think about that too closely.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Fucking Narcissa Malfoy,” Antonin Dolohov said. He threw back the shot of whiskey and waved his glass in the air. He’d been drinking since Percy Weasley had stolen –_stolen—_the position he’d planned to manipulate himself into. He blamed Narcissa. 

The bartended glared but poured another shot anyway.

“That bitch is a plague upon the earth,” he said. “She’s-.”

He never got more out.

“I dunno what happened,” the bartender said later to the overtired and indifferent Auror. “He was ranting about someone, and then he just choked to death.”

“I hit him on the back a few times,” a barmaid said. “Cast a couple of non-choking spells –."

“We use those a lot,” the bartended said. “He’s not the first to choke on a pretzel or something.”

“Didn’t work, though,” the barmaid said. “Turned blue and bam. Dead.”

The Auror sighed and nudged the body with his foot. This day had already been too long and he honestly didn’t want to fill out the paperwork required for any kind of death where foul play was suspected, and the fool had probably had had too much and choked on a chip or something. Even Death Eaters – maybe especially Death Eaters today – could die that way. “Eh,” he said. “I’ll just throw the body into the indigent morgue with all the other dead bums, let them handle it.”

“You’re the professional,” said the barmaid. “Can I get you a pint before you leave?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione tossed first one shoe and then the other into the closet, then sank into a chair. Her feet hurt. Wasn’t that the most pedestrian thing to be thinking about? She’d helped bring down a tyrant, seen a man she respected named Minister by screaming acclamation, and her best friend was moving back to Britain. Somehow, any day with all those things shouldn’t also include sore feet. She bent down to rub one of them but Draco beat her to it. 

“Let me.” He sat on the floor in front of her and pulled her foot into his lap. She leaned back and closed her eyes as he pressed his thumbs into her instep, kneading away the pain.

“Keep doing that and I’ll never let you leave,” she said.

He snorted. “Unbreakable marriage vows.”

“I could probably find a loophole,” she said, her eyes still closed, “but keep that up and I’ll be too distracted to bother.”

His fingers worked their magic for another minute before pausing and she lifted her head off the back of the chair to look at him. “Problem?” she asked.

He pulled his lips up in a smile that she would have called a smirk once upon a time. “If what you’re interested in is distraction,” he said, “I can offer you a better alternative than foot massage.”

She quirked her brows up. “Oh, really?” she asked.

He pulled himself up, leaned forward, and whispered into her ear. By the third sentence, her face had begun to burn as a blush overtook her cheeks. They’d been married for a while, but she’d had no idea how very detailed he could be in his planning. Or how filthy.

“Yes,” she said faintly after he straightened all the way up. “That would be quite the distraction.”

He held a hand out and she took it and let him lead her to their bed where he proceeded to prove that his skill at foot massage was, indeed, the least of his talents.

~ THE END ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the readers who came along on this journey with me. I hope you have enjoyed yourselves. Love to you all.


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